She turned, saw him and the inebriated preacher, and her smile faded to a quizzical then nervous expression. “Jack?” Her look was uneasy.
He forgot about the laundry when the truth hit him with a painful blow—she didn’t want to get married. “Padre,” he said, “why don’t you go on inside and have a whiskey. We’ll be right in.”
The preacher grinned. “Than’ you, son, than’ you.”
Jack watched him begin an unsteady walk to the door before turning to Candice. “We’re getting married.”
Her navy eyes went wide.
“As far as I’m concerned, you are my wife, but I won’t have thepindahsaying my son is a bastard.” His voice was soft, ruthless. “Do you understand?”
Candice overcame her initial shock. Things had gone too far—she was pregnant and his mistress, so this was the only solution, and it had been what she had secretly hoped for. She did not want her baby called a bastard either, not ever. And she loved Jack—although she’d never told him that, not since the first time, because she didn’t think he felt the same way about her.
She was momentarily disappointed. She knew he was marrying her because of the baby, not because of herself. Then she realized she didn’t care. One thing Jack had was honor—he would never abandon them, and marriage would tie her to him forever.
He reached out and his hand closed too firmly over her wrist. “I’m not giving you a choice,” he growled.
She looked up, startled, realizing he’d misread her reasons for hesitation. “Let’s get married,” she said, too lightly. Then she added, “Is he too drunk to perform the ceremony?”
“I don’t really care,” Jack replied, “just so long as it’s legal.”
When they entered, the preacher stood, knocking over his chair and looking foolish. “That’s all right, Padre,” Jack said, picking up the chair.
“Sorry.”
“Are you Catholic, Father?” Candice asked. Jack kept calling him Padre.
He looked confused. “No.”
“Oh.”
He reached inside his jacket and produced a small, worn Bible. Jack stepped to Candice’s side. Candice hastily yanked off her kerchief and stuffed it into her apron pocket. She had a flash of every woman’s fantasy—of herself as a bride, gorgeous in white satin and lace with a veil and a ten-foot train, waiting down a real church aisle, with Jack waiting for her—resplendent in a black suit. Her father giving her away.
Tears came to her eyes, and she blinked them away. She would not compare this ceremony to what she’d always imagined her wedding would be. She wouldn’t.
“In sickness an’ in health, to love an’ to cherish?” the preacher was saying.
“I do,” Jack said.
“An’ do you, er—”
Candice felt panic. He needed to know her name, her real name. She was frozen, not even able to breathe.
“Candice Kincaid,” Jack supplied.
Oh, my God, I should have told him. She heard herself inhale loudly. “Candice Carter,” she corrected, her voice a bare whisper.
Jack’s gaze swung to her, hard, incredulous, burning.
“An’ d’you, Candice Kincaid, take this man to be your husban’, to love an’ to cherish, in sickness an’ health, until death do you part?”
She didn’t dare look at Jack. She could feel the heat of his gaze. “It’s Carter,” she said, forcing herself to speak up.
“Carter?” The preacher looked infinitely puzzled. Then his brows drew together. “Can’t you make up your min’?”
“Candice Carter,” Jack reiterated, his voice low and menacing.
“D’you, CandiceCarter, take this man to be your husban’?”
