Love Inspired June 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Single Dad Cowboy\The Bachelor Meets His Match\Unexpected Reunion (21 page)

“What happened?” Uncle Kent, his aunt Odelia's rotund husband, asked as Morgan wiped Simone's face with the wet towel.

“We were just talking and she fainted.”

A retired pharmacist, Kent knew a bit about medical matters, so when he told someone to get her a soft drink, something with sugar in it, Morgan simply added, “And put some food on a plate. She said she hadn't eaten.”

Already rousing, she moaned. Morgan wiped the wet towel over her face again, taking away the makeup that had concealed the freckles across the bridge of her nose and the dark circles beneath those gorgeous eyes. Suddenly, Morgan wanted to shove away everyone else and hold her close. He told himself that she was just a kid, no more than twenty-one, probably, and a student, strictly off-limits for a professor. That was a line he had never crossed, one he had never even been tempted to cross, despite ample opportunity over the years. Until now. But why?

She had already proved herself untrustworthy, having dropped a class after the deadline and leaving her project teammates in the lurch. She had likely been a foster child and could well be anorexic, given her frailty and lack of eating. Moreover, she seemed to be a loner and something of a mystery, probably one of those kids with a tough past that she hadn't quite left behind. He should have wanted to wash his hands of her, right then and there, but as her adviser and host he was responsible for her to a point, and until he was satisfied that she was well, he couldn't relinquish supervision of her. More to the point, he didn't want to.

It was that simple and, alas, that complicated.

* * *

Died.
The word seemed to reverberate inside Simone's skull, echoing so loudly that her eyeballs bounced. She blinked, realized immediately what had happened and opened her eyes to find herself face-to-face with the much too handsome Professor Chatam. He ran a hand through his damp, nut-brown hair, his cinnamon eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“Welcome back,” he said, sounding relieved. The smile cut grooves in his lean cheeks and flattened the fascinating cleft in his chin. Add a high, smooth forehead, the long, straight blade of his nose and a square jawline, and she could simply find nothing to dislike in that face.

Gulping, Simone sat up a little straighter and glanced around.

The kindly faces of three older women smiled down at her. All three had gently cleft chins. The one they called Hypatia wore a silk pantsuit, a string of pearls and pumps. To a pool party. Her silver hair had been swept into a sleek, sophisticated roll on the back of her head. Her sister Magnolia, on the other hand, wore trousers and rubber boots with a gardening smock, her steel-gray hair twisted into a grizzled braid. The third one—Odelia, Simone thought her name was—could have worked as a sideshow in a circus. The plumpest of the sisters, she wore her short, white hair in a froth of curls tied with a multicolored scarf that matched the rainbow print of the ruffled caftan. She accented this with stacks of bangles at her wrists and beads at her throat, as well as clusters of tiny rainbows that dangled from her earlobes.

“How are you?” asked the rainbow-festooned Odelia.

Simone managed to croak, “Fine.”

“Look at me,” Morgan Chatam commanded. Simone automatically bristled, but she fought back the impulse to snap and complied. “Have you fainted like this before?”

She considered lying but decided against it. She'd put such things behind her, so instead she nodded and cleared her throat. “I'm all right now.”

When she started to swing her legs to the side, however, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pinned her back against the chaise.

“Not until you answer a couple of questions.”

Her heart thunked with uncertainty. She hadn't had a moment to think since she'd learned that her father had died, and this handsome man was making it difficult to order her thoughts. A plate of food hovered beside his head, and she glanced up at the familiar woman who held it. Had she been recognized, then? Now that it was too late? Simone had expected it upon her arrival, but when it hadn't happened, she'd started to plan how to make herself known, then to realize that her father was dead...dead. She shivered uncontrollably.

“Is this the result of an eating disorder?” Morgan demanded. “Anorexia? Bulimia?”

Her brows jumped up, a short, almost silent laugh escaping her. “No.”

He considered, relaxed, dropped his hands and finally reached up for the plate of food. “You won't mind eating this, then.”

She was hungry, so she didn't argue. Taking the plate warily, she relaxed somewhat when Hilda, who happened to be her aunt by marriage, turned away without so much as a second glance. Not recognized, then. She supposed she had changed a good deal in the past nine, almost ten, years, and given the ravages of cancer... Simone sometimes wondered which was worse, the disease or the cure. She turned off the thought and smiled her thanks at those around her.

“This is exactly what I need.” She picked up the burger and bit into it. “Mmm.” After chewing and swallowing, she touched her fingertips to the corners of her mouth and said, “I prefer my cheeseburgers with mayonnaise.”

Chuckling, Morgan Chatam pushed up to his full height. “Mayo coming up.”

“And a napkin, please.”

“And a napkin.”

While he went off to fetch those things for her, she turned to sit sideways on the chaise. Her uncle Chester handed her a soft drink, nodding and moving off without so much as a glimmer of identification. Simone felt a pang of disappointment, but perhaps it was for the best. She couldn't think of that now. The Chatam ladies stayed with her until Morgan returned with his own meal in hand. As they moved off, he sat down beside her, placed his drink on the ground and handed her a plastic knife, indicating the glob of white on his plate.

“Mayonnaise.” While she slathered the condiment onto her hamburger bun, he plucked paper napkins from a pocket and dropped several into her lap. “And napkins.”

“I thank you.” She bowed her head at him, adding, “And I apologize. I forget to eat, and I don't always get as much sleep as I should.”

“And that's all it is?”

“It's certainly not an eating disorder,” she said with a wry chuckle, adding, “It probably didn't help that I walked over here in the heat.”

“In that case,” he said, “I'll be driving you home.”

“Oh, that's not nece—”

“I'll be driving you home,” he repeated, making it clear that the matter was not open for discussion.

She subsided at once, but it rankled. At twenty-six, Simone had been on her own for almost a decade. If anyone could claim the title of “adult,” then she could. She certainly wasn't proud of being the black sheep of the family. She had run away from home at the tender—and stupid—age of sixteen, but she had survived. It had been a near thing at times, and she wasn't always proud of how she had managed, but no one at the college needed to know that. Her family was another matter.

She'd intended to confess all to her dad and hope, trust, that he could forgive her. He'd been good like that, always willing to extend another chance. Her mother had seen that as weakness, and to her shame, Simone had, too, but she'd learned otherwise over the years. Now that it didn't matter.

Grief loomed. She shoved it away. She had no right to it. Later, she would decide what to do.

After eating most of the food she'd been given, she shook her head and handed over the plate. “That's all I can manage.”

Morgan Chatam stacked the plate atop his empty one and set both on the end of the chaise. “Good enough. Perhaps you'd like to go inside where it's cool now and rest for a bit.”

“That sounds great.”

She got to her feet, as steady as could be. He lifted a hand and she preceded him back to the house, saying, “About that cousin of yours, the one who married the widow...”

“Phillip? What about him?”

“You said something about a business.”

“That's right. Smartphone apps.”

Simone couldn't help smiling. Yes, that sounded like her sister, Carissa. Tom, Carissa's husband—
first
husband—had studied computer science, and Carissa had always been fascinated by the subject. Poor Tom. It was hard to believe that he, too, had died.

“And do they live around here? Phillip and...his wife?”

“They do. They bought a house and set up an office less than a mile away.”

“That's nice.”

She and Carissa had never been the closest of sisters, but Simone was glad to know that Carissa was doing well. Now that their dad was gone and Carissa had married into the Chatam family, however, she wasn't likely to want her black sheep little sister around, especially if her full history should be uncovered. And it surely would be. The Guillands, her in-laws, had uncovered it quite easily.

After that, nothing could convince them that she was good enough for their precious son. “A diseased street kid” who could not even give them the grandchild they so desperately wanted was not a fit wife for the Guilland family heir. Simone didn't really blame them for having her marriage to their son annulled, any more than she would blame her sister for turning away from her in shame. So why even give Carissa the chance? Why put Carissa through that?

It seemed to Simone that even her dreams of home and reconciliation had died.

Chapter Two

M
organ reached around Simone to open the sunroom door. “Let me show you someplace comfortable to wait out of the heat.”

“All right.”

He led her through the sunroom and down a darkened back hallway to a large room filled with comfy overstuffed furniture and a large flat-screen TV.

“The family parlor,” he said. “There are video games, if you're interested.”

She cut a glance at him, quipping, “That's not what I expected to hear. Then again, you're not exactly the typical college professor.”

He laughed. “You just haven't seen me in my tweed jacket with the suede patches on the elbows.”

She smiled at that. “Sounds rather old school. Seems to me that college professors these days are either eccentric or ultraprofessional types.”

“Well, history professors are a different breed.”

“Yes, but you don't fit that mold, either.”

He grinned and for some reason that he couldn't explain even to himself, he prodded her for a personal opinion. “No?” He spread his arms then folded them. “How would you label me, then? Be kind, now.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, obviously trying to size him up, and he was aware of his heartbeat beginning to accelerate. “If I didn't know and had to guess, I'd say...race car driver.”

His jaw dropped, but he quickly snapped it shut again. She had to be putting him on, of course. His predilections were well-known around campus.

“That's funny.” He laughed, but it sounded forced even to his own ears. “But it's motorcycles. Not race cars.”

“You're kidding.”

He didn't appreciate her attempt to play stupid. Oddly disappointed, he turned and walked out. Everyone knew that speed was his greatest weakness, his great indulgence. Sports cars, motorcycles, fast boats, even roller coasters were his idea of FUN, writ large and in capital letters. Some of his family gave him a hard time about it, but he was skillful, careful and respectful of the laws, saving his true exploits for the racetrack. Next to moving fast, he liked tinkering and kept a fleet of vehicles, one for every purpose. More than one young miss had tried to use his fascination with horsepower to spark a more personal fascination. That this one appeared to take the opposite approach somehow unnerved him.

Then again, everything about her unnerved him, and he couldn't quite figure out why. He'd been struck by the sight of her sitting alone at that table in the sunroom. Then, when she'd passed out, dropping right into his arms...he'd never quite experienced anything like that. It hadn't been panic, really, or even shock; it was more...a heightened awareness, a deep physical connection overlaid by concern for her well-being and something else he could only describe as
possessiveness.
He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all, but something about Simone Guilland drew him. Hopefully, she hadn't noticed.

He kept an eye on her, wandering in and out of the house regularly. She didn't move from the couch. A few others went inside and joined her, making use of the video games he'd spoken of earlier. She chatted with them and cheered them on as they played, her husky voice seeming to deepen with use until the sound of it flayed his skin like velvet lashings and set his nerves on edge.

The party began to break up about dusk, as it was meant to. As usual, many hands made short work of the cleanup. Morgan could always count on his faculty in the History Department to pitch in and help. With Hilda and Chester overseeing everything, they were finished in no time at all. Still, dark had descended by the time he escorted Simone out to the two-seater parked beneath the porte cochere on the west end of the house. He'd treated himself to the Valencia-orange convertible when he'd made department chair last year. The BMW Z4 was a sharp, fast, classy bit of self-indulgence for which he refused to feel guilty. He worked hard, after all, tithed religiously, gave generously and spent what was left as he pleased. Simone dropped down into the passenger seat, her eyebrows rising, and fastened her safety belt as he strode around the front end to take his place behind the steering wheel.

“Am I going to regret this?” she asked cheekily.

He couldn't help grinning as he put the transmission in gear. “Nope. I am, if I do say so myself, an excellent driver.”

“Modest, too,” she quipped, then she laughed outright at his look of dismay. He found himself laughing with her. He
was
rather proud of his driving skills.

After backing out, he drove the sports car sedately down the looping drive and south through town the dozen or so blocks to the university district. She directed him to a three-story boardinghouse on the north edge of the university campus. It was a ramshackle place, some forty or fifty years old. Once a dignified family home, it had long ago devolved to seedy, its large, airy rooms broken into small cells with common bathrooms on each story and a central living space and utilitarian kitchen on the ground floor. The yard had been paved over to provide parking, and bicycles and skateboards crowded the warped porch.

Morgan had been inside many times. While single men and women were never allowed to share living space in buildings on campus, the school had no control over off-campus housing. Typically, these three-story boardinghouses hosted men on the top story and women on the middle one, with the bottom floor reserved for common rooms. These places tended to be loud and run-down and catered to the poorest students living on the smallest of stipends. Just now, loud music poured from the building.

“We have a resident praise band,” she said wryly, explaining the music.

“No wonder you haven't been getting much sleep.”

She shrugged. “They're good people, and this is all I can afford on my wages.”

Morgan hated to think of quiet, physically fragile Simone here. However spunky she might be, he sensed shadows and sadness in her, trouble and need. It was his job to help her, if he could. That's what faculty advisers at Buffalo Creek Bible College did. He'd had his share of troubled students. Christian colleges were not immune from the ills of society; perhaps the effects were mitigated somewhat, but the world was still the world, and Christians still had to cope with it. If she had been raised through the foster care system, as he suspected, he might be able to find resources for her of which she was unaware.

“Where do you work?”

“At the Campus Gate Coffee House.”

He knew it well. The proprietors were friends, and he ate breakfast there at least once a week. Located just across the street from the west gate to the campus, it was a very popular place.

She reached for the door handle, saying, “It doesn't pay much, but when I've finished school, I won't owe a dime to anyone.”

“Well, that's a definite plus,” he told her, “but perhaps you should think about applying for a grant or a small loan.”

She shook her head. “That's not for me.” With that she let herself out of the car, saying, “Thank you for the ride, Professor Chatam.”

Morgan frowned at the way she dismissed his suggestion so casually, but she was already moving away from the car. “Take care of yourself,” he called. “See you in class on Wednesday.”

“I'll be there,” she promised, waving as she hurried up the walk to the house.

As he drove away, Morgan made a mental vow to keep track of her. He wasn't yet convinced that she didn't have an eating disorder. He'd seen bulimia more than once, not usually in young women from foster homes, though. He'd hate to see something like that derail Simone's education—and it wouldn't do to let an inappropriate attraction distract him from his duty. That wouldn't do at all.

* * *

Simone closed the flimsy door of her shabby room and sagged against it. The beat of the bass guitar echoed up the stairwell from the floor below and throbbed inside her aching skull. The narrow bed against the far wall called to her, but she went to the laptop computer atop the rickety desk in the corner and turned it on. That, a pair of low, sparsely filled bookcases, a small lamp, a trash can, an oval rug, a pair of curtains and a desk chair comprised the furnishings of the room. It was little to show for nearly a decade, but such things had ceased to matter to her in a hospital bed in a cancer ward in Baton Rouge.

Without Morgan Chatam to distract her, she could no longer contain her need to know what had happened to her family. A simple internet search brought up her father's obituary on the computer screen.

Marshall Doyal Worth, fifty-seven, had died on June 20 after a long illness. An old photo of him as a young man, one of her favorites, accompanied the text. Survivors included his mother, listed as Eileen L. Davenport Worth; his older brother, Chester; sister-in-law, Hilda; two daughters, Carissa, of the home, and Lyla—no residence mentioned—grandsons Nathan and Tucker; granddaughter Grace; a niece and a nephew; and several great-nieces and nephews. Marshall had died, it would seem, from cancer, as it was requested that memorials be made in the form of donations to fund research.

Obviously, cancer ran in the family.

At least Carissa and her children had been living with Marshall at the end, so he hadn't been alone. Tears flowed from her eyes as Simone folded her arms across the edge of the desk and lowered her aching head to pray.

“Oh, Lord, I'm sorry. Please tell my daddy that I'm sorry. It's too late. I left it too late. I thought I was doing the right thing by coming here now, but maybe I shouldn't have done it. Show me what to do now, and forgive me. Please forgive me.”

She had more than nine years of “forgive me” stacked up, nearly a decade of penance to pay and mistakes to undo. And now it was too late. With her father gone, what was the point in coming here? Carissa wasn't likely to want anything to do with her now.

Poor Carissa, to have lost Tom and then to have nursed their dad through cancer all on her own.... No, Carissa wasn't likely to want anything to do with her wayward little sister now. And who could blame her? Tom had been Carissa's high school sweetheart. She'd never showed any interest in any other guy. How tough it must have been for her to lose him!

Simone lifted her head and looked up Tom's obituary. Four years. He had died in an accident of some sort more than four years ago.

Her tears became sobs of grief and shame and regret. Once started, she couldn't seem to stop them, not even when she impulsively looked up the wedding announcements in the local newspaper and saw a photo of Carissa and her beautiful children posed with a tall, ruggedly handsome, dark-haired man with the Chatam cleft chin. Carissa looked a little older, more capable, healthy and quite stunning.

“Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Chatam,” the caption read, “and family.”

The article beneath detailed that the couple had been “united in holy wedlock” on Friday, August 8, at Chatam House, the home of the groom's aunts, by the groom's uncle, Hubner Chatam Jr. Maid of honor was Dallas Chatam, sister of the groom.

Simone felt a pang at that. She had been the maid of honor at Carissa's marriage to Tom, but she hadn't been here when Carissa had buried Tom or their father or when she'd married Phillip Chatam. Simone hadn't even known that she had a niece and nephews. Carissa had been pregnant when Simone had left, but she hadn't given that much thought at the time. All things considered, that was probably best. Simone tore her gaze away from the photo of the children and continued reading.

Asher Chatam, brother of the groom, had served as best man. The bride was given in marriage by her uncle, Chester Worth. The happy couple's parents were listed as the late Marshall Worth and Alexandra Hedgespeth and the doctors Murdock Chatam and Maryanne Burdett Chatam.

“Hedgespeth,” Simone murmured, swiping ineffectually at her tears. That was a new one. She couldn't help wondering how many other last names and husbands her mother had claimed in the past nine years.

Simone hadn't expected life to stand still in Buffalo Creek while she was gone. It certainly hadn't stood still for her. But she hadn't expected
this.

Her dad had been only fifty-seven, and Tom had been in his thirties. So young.

Fresh tears gushed from her eyes. She cried for her father, for her late brother-in-law, for Carissa and her children, but she refused to cry for herself. She knew only too well what her dad must have suffered and could only hope that Tom had not suffered anything similar. What Carissa had endured Simone could only imagine. At the same time, Simone prayed, hoped, that Alexandra had not spent the intervening years flitting from man to man, demanding that everyone stop and think of her, put her needs and desires first. Yet that new last name, Hedgespeth, suggested that her mother had not mended her self-indulgent ways. That meant that Carissa had, indeed, dealt with it all alone.

Could Carissa ever forgive her only sister for abandoning her to deal with such tragedies and their demanding mother alone? The very question so smacked of their self-absorbed mother that Simone vowed never to ask it. She had no right to ask it, no right to dump her problems and failures on the sister who had stayed to do what a good daughter should.

Carissa had happily remarried. She didn't need a prodigal sister turning up to complicate her life just when things were going well for a change. No, it was too late for that.

It would have been better if she hadn't come to BCBC and Buffalo Creek, but what was done was done. Aaron, her former husband—if he could be called that—had paid her tuition in full, just as she'd requested. It was all Simone had asked for in the settlement, a college education, and his cagey parents had seen to it that the funds they'd dispensed to be rid of her could not be used for any other reason. She had specified Buffalo Creek Bible College, and that's where they had sent the money, so this was where she would have to attend school. That meant she would just have to keep to herself.