The Fake Husband Read online

  “I think we need to cut to the chase.”

  Folding his arms along the edge of the table, Rhys leaned closer and held Jacquie’s gaze by sheer force of will. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I am sure I’m tired of playing games. Why are we here, Jacquie? What do you have to say to me?”

  She drew a deep breath. “You asked me why I left without saying anything.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there is no husband. I invented him because I couldn’t come home as an unwed mother with an illegitimate child.”

  Setting down her coffee, Jacquie looked Rhys straight in the eyes. “Your child, Rhys. My daughter, Erin Elizabeth Archer, is your child. The only proof you’ll need is a single glance at her beautiful face.”

  Dear Reader,

  I taught myself to ride a horse when I was in junior high school…with a scarf looped around the bedpost, me mounted on the footboard and a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica open on the mattress for instruction. Yes, I really was that crazy about horses. But in time I grew up, gained a husband and children and let the horse dreams fade.

  Then my younger daughter, aged twelve, began pestering me to go riding with her friends. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but now we own four horses and spend most of our time outside school hours “at the barn.”

  The Fake Husband is a story about people who love horses. Jacquie Archer and Rhys Lewellyn are brought together the first time by their competitive equestrian careers. And when all-too-human concerns tear them apart, it's the horses—and one very special child—that bring them together again. I think the nobility of the horse draws out the best in us humans, and I thoroughly enjoyed spending time with people who respond to that call. I hope you'll do the same.

  Happy reading!

  Lynnette Kent

  [email protected]

  or PMB 304

  Westwood Shopping Center

  Fayetteville, NC 28314

  The Fake Husband

  Lynnette Kent

  To the friends I’ve found “at the barn”

  Kelly and C.J., Kim, Beth, Karen and Julie and Kelly K. and Laura, Dr. Garrett and Dr. Brian

  Your laughter, your tears and your teaching will always be with me.

  Books by Lynnette Kent

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  765—ONE MORE RODEO

  793—WHEN SPARKS FLY

  824—WHAT A MAN’S GOT TO DO

  868—EXPECTING THE BEST

  901—LUKE’S DAUGHTERS

  938—MATT’S FAMILY

  988—NOW THAT YOU’RE HERE

  1002—MARRIED IN MONTANA

  1024—SHENANDOAH CHRISTMAS

  1080—THE THIRD MRS. MITCHELL

  1118—THE BALLAD OF DIXON BELL

  1147—THE LAST HONEST MAN

  CONTENTS

  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

  CHAPTER ONE

  RHYS LEWELLYN ARRIVED in the “sunny South” on New Year’s Day, just in time for the worst snowstorm to hit North Carolina in eighty years.

  “Damn snow wasn’t supposed to reach this far till tomorrow,” he growled, switching the windshield wipers to maximum speed. “And we should have been here two days ago.”

  “Two flat tires and five horses make for slow traveling.” Coming from the back seat, Terry O’Neal’s brogue was as thick as the day he left Ireland thirty years ago.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Rhys shifted his weight from hipbone to hipbone and flicked the switch for the seat heater to high. The escalating ache in his back measured exactly how much effort he’d put into this trip and how much stress he’d undertaken.

  “All right, then.” Terry rattled the map. “Your turn’s coming up on the left.”

  “Thank God.” A glance toward the passenger side showed his son’s posture unchanged, head turned to look out the window at the white blanket shrouding trees and road alike. No sign of interest, or fatigue, or anything remotely resembling enthusiasm had slipped through Andrew’s guard since leaving New York. He might as well have declared himself a hostage.

  Perhaps he was—a hostage to his father’s failure.

  For now, though, the struggle was not father against son but man against nature. Rhys eased his foot onto the brake and felt the tires skid.

  “There has to be six inches of snow on this road, over a layer of ice. Have these people ever heard of snowplows?” With the weight of the trailer behind him, he needed all the traction he could get—which appeared to be none, as the truck continued to slide despite antilock brakes and four-wheel drive.

  Rhys muttered a string of curses. “I can’t stop the damn thing.”

  “Just take the corner,” Terry advised, leaning forward between the seats. “Wide as you can.”

  Teeth gritted, Rhys didn’t have time for another smart answer. He turned the steering wheel gently to the left, avoiding thoughts of what would happen if the trailer behind him twisted or, worse, capsized. Holding his breath, he glanced at the rearview mirror to see the rig behind him come into line. All he had to do was straighten up a bit and they’d be headed down the lane, none the worse for their little skating adventure.

  Then the truck’s front tire jolted into a deep hole on the right side. “Oh, Jesus,” Terry groaned. “What now?”

  The rear wheel followed. Before Rhys could brake, the trailer’s double wheel, loaded with two and a half tons of horse, dropped into the pit and stuck fast. Their forward progress skidded to a shuddering, lurching stop.

  Swearing, Rhys released his seat belt and jumped down into the snow, wincing as the impact jarred his back. His first glance at the trailer showed him the worst—a forty-foot conveyance tilted to the side of the road at a steep angle, containing five animals known for their tendency to panic at the bite of a fly.

  Terry charged past him. “Got to get them out,” he muttered through the fog of his breath, “’fore they go hurting themselves.”

  “And how are we going to tie up horses in an empty field in the middle of a snowstorm?” Rhys joined the older man in letting down the back ramp and opening the double doors.

  “God knows.”

  “And we’re waiting for divine revelation?”

  “Better revelation than a broken leg.”

  Three horses were loaded side by side at this end, facing forward and trying to keep their balance on the sloping floor. An ominous thumping came from one of the berths at the other end of the trailer.

  Rhys put a hand on Terry’s shoulder. “You unload here. I’ll start at the front end.”

  “You can’t bring that stallion out by yourself.”

  “I’ll get Andrew to help.”

  “That’ll be a trick.”

  Contrary to Terry’s pessimism, Andrew had sized up the situation and solved one of their problems already. As Rhys headed to the center door of the trailer, he saw that his son had found a pair of trees off to the left and was stringing a line between them to which the horses could be tied.

  “Good idea,” Rhys called across the snowy ground. Andrew didn’t hear, or chose not to. Either way, he didn’t react.

  But within the trailer, Imperator had heard his master’s voice. His shrill whinny ratcheted the anxiety of the other horses up several notches. Rhys got the ramp down and the door open just in time to see the big Thoroughbred hunch, elevating his hi
ndquarters. With the sound of a cannon shot, both hooves impacted the wall of his stall.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Beside the trailer, Terry hung on to a lead rope as the bay gelding on the other end, taking exception to Imperator’s display, attempted to rear. By the sound of it, the horses still in the trailer with Imperator were on the verge of outright revolt. “Down, Abner. Down.”

  Rhys climbed into the trailer to stand spread legged in front of his stallion. “Okay, big boy, we got the message. You want out. Can you be halfway cool about this?”

  Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, Imperator was anything but cool. His winter coat of thick black hair was streaked with sweat. He didn’t travel well at the best of times, and this morning’s tranquilizer had worn off a couple of hours ago—the scheduled time of their arrival before the intervention of the storm.

  “Settle down, son.” Rhys stroked a hand along the arch of Imperator’s neck. “Just a little uneven ground, here. You’re the best there is over hills.”

  The horse pawed the floor with an impatient hoof, barely missing the toe of Rhys’s boot.

  “Get you out, is what you’re saying. Right. Just don’t kill me in the process.” He untied the lead rope from the ring on the wall and stepped back as Imperator lunged against the padded breast bar keeping him in the stall.

  “No.” Snapping the rope taut, Rhys put steel into his voice. “Back up. Back up,” he ordered, pressing his fist into the stallion’s chest. “You heard me. Back.” Imperator brought his own stern will to the argument, refusing to retreat. Snow blew into the trailer, along with a cold wind that froze Rhys’s rear end and stiffened the tense muscles in his back.

  Giving in, however, would destroy what control he might possess over this powerful animal. He jerked the lead rope once more, pulling the horse’s head down until they met eye to eye. “Imperator. Back. Now.”

  After a moment, Imperator conceded and shuffled back a step, then another. Rhys let him stand there for a few moments, submissive, to reinforce the lesson. “Okay. Now we’ll try again.” He released the breast bar. “Slowly. Walk on, Imperator. Walk.”

  The horse stepped to the door of the tilted trailer and hesitated at the top of the ramp, staring out at the white world swirling around him. Snowflakes matted his mane and eyelashes immediately. Imperator snorted and shook his head.

  “Yes, we were leaving this weather behind, weren’t we? The point of coming south was to get warm, right?” Rhys felt for his footing in the soft snow. “Among other things. Walk on.”

  Steadily Imperator moved down the ramp. Once on the ground, a combination of fresh air and the prospect of freedom energized the big horse. Head high, eyes wide, he surveyed his new surroundings, shifting his body to take in a three-hundred-sixty-degree view. Though he obviously would have preferred to gallop across the field to the trees where Abner was already tied up, Rhys held him to a walk on the unknown ground and tied him at the other end of the line from the bay. “You two be gentlemen. We don’t need any other complications this afternoon.”

  When he turned back to the trailer, he saw Andrew trudging through the snow leading the two mares, Daisy and Lucretia, followed by Terry with Felix, the black-and-white pinto yearling.

  “So,” he said as they came close, “we’ve got five horses to move down this lane in the snow. Any reason we can’t ride three and lead the other two?”

  Terry shrugged. “Whatever we’re going to do, let’s be quick about it. I’m freezing my cheeks off out here.”

  Rhys nodded. “I’ll take Abner and lead Imperator. Andrew can mount Daisy.” He gave the gelding a pat. Daisy and Abner were brother and sister, though a year apart in age, and shared the same even temperament. Riding either horse was like relaxing in a favorite armchair.

  But Terry stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I’d advise against riding her after all the upset. You can never tell what will cause a mare to drop her foal too early.”

  “Damn.” Daisy was pregnant, and Terry was exactly right. But Felix was far too young to carry a rider. “That leaves us a mount short.”

  Andrew looked around, his eyes bright. “I’ll ride Imperator.”

  Rhys shook his head. “No.”

  “I can. He—”

  Keeping a firm grip on his temper, Rhys explained the obvious. “All we need is an Olympic champion running wild with you on his back, through a snowstorm, over unfamiliar, unseen ground. The way things are going today, both of you would end up with broken bones.”

  An insolent—even contemptuous—sneer curled Andrew’s mouth. “I’m not the one who fell off him last.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Terry said sharply. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, boy.”

  Rhys swallowed against a surge of emotion he didn’t want to classify. “I have more weight to use and twenty years of experience to my advantage. That makes me a safer bet.” Avoiding the sullen outrage on Andrew’s face, he turned toward the truck. “I’ll lock up the rig.”

  First he tried to pull the trailer wheels out of the hole again, thinking that without the weight of the horses, he might actually succeed. But the traction just wasn’t there. Even in low gear, the truck’s wheels spun uselessly against the weight behind it.

  In the tack room of the trailer, he slung Imperator’s bridle over his shoulder and pulled saddle pads off the racks. He’d seldom ridden this horse bareback—Imperator needed the discipline of a saddle to keep him focused.

  Then again, the last time he had been on Imp’s back, a saddle hadn’t kept either of them from disaster. For a moment, Rhys stood with his eyes closed, fighting back the memory of that last fall, his own sense of helplessness as the world literally spun around his head.

  But that was the past. Today, he was making a start on his future. Their future, his and his son’s.

  When he rejoined Terry and Andrew, they’d fashioned their horses’ halters into bridles without bits. Rhys gave them blankets and turned toward the stallion. Again Terry grabbed his sleeve. “I’ll ride him, if you want,” the Irishman said in a low voice. “You’ve no need to take such a risk, with your back still tender.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Rhys assured the trainer, and himself. “Give me a leg up.” As they walked to open ground for mounting, Imp tossed his head and capered, obviously wanting a brisk run.

  “Are you sure?” Terry asked once more.

  “What do you think?” Rhys brushed the snow from Imp’s back before slinging the saddle pad across.

  “That you’re a damn lunatic, just as I have said since you were five years old.”

  “Well, at least I’m consistent. Ready?” He closed the reins inside his left fist.

  Terry bent his back and held out his clasped hands for Rhys to put his knee into. “If you say so.”

  Then, with three bounces on his right foot and a toss up from Terry, Rhys found himself, for the first time in two months, astride the great Imperator.

  “All right?” Terry said, as Imp sidled and shied.

  What other choice did he have? He could either admit he was all but puking with fear…or else sit here and ride the damn horse.

  Rhys drew a deep, shaking breath. “All right.”

  The Irishman retained Daisy’s lead rope as he ploughed through the deepening snow—at least eight inches by now—to Lucretia, a gray Thoroughbred named for the wicked glint in her eye. Andrew, again wearing his mask of indifference, had already mounted Abner.

  As he had for the past week, Rhys ignored his son’s attitude and his own inability to make a connection with the boy. “Let’s get this parade underway.”

  Heading Imperator toward the lane, he kept a firm hand on the reins, restraining the stallion’s desire for speed. The asphalt road surface was solid under the snow, but treacherous nonetheless, thanks to that layer of ice.

  “How far do we have to go?” he called back to Terry.

  “Five miles, or there abouts.”

  “Terrific.”

  Five frozen
miles to a cold house and barn he’d leased without seeing them, on a horse he had failed the last time they rode together. Imperator didn’t trust him any more than he trusted himself. Not exactly the perfect start to a new life.

  “Happy New Year.” Rhys blew out a frustrated breath. “Happy New Year, indeed.”

  COVERED WITH SNOW and laughing with no breath left to do so, Jacquie Archer staggered into the warmth of her kitchen and leaned back against the door to prevent her daughter from coming inside.

  “Let me in!” Erin pretended to pound on the window. “Little pig, little pig, let me come in.”

  Jacquie grinned at the recollection of childhood stories. “Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”

  “Then I’ll huff—” Erin pushed at the door “—and I’ll puff—” she pushed again “—and I’ll blow your house in.” She gave one more push, just as Jacquie stepped away from the door and allowed it to swing open. With a cry of surprise, Erin stumbled across the threshold and into her mother’s arms.

  They collapsed against each other, still laughing. Hurry, their Australian shepherd, came in behind Erin and danced around their feet in exuberant canine fashion, panting and jumping up at them in an effort to join the game.

  “Now I remember why we named her Hurricane,” Jacquie said, rubbing the perky ears. “We’d all better get dried off before we end up standing in a puddle of melted snow.”

  Minutes later, their ski jackets and bibs hung from the shower curtain rod in the back bathroom. The snow caked on their boots melted into the tub. Erin toweled Hurry’s long, black-and-white coat to a reasonably dry state and gave her a snack of dog food mixed with warm water while Jacquie heated water for tea.