no.” Shaking her head until her gray curls bobbed, Marsha clasped a palm over her mouth, struggling for composure. After a long moment, she straightened, wiping her palms on her suit skirt. “The bride is gone.”
“Gone where?”
“No one knows. She just…disappeared.” Marsha clasped her hands and angled a compassionate glance toward Hal Stuart, who was still engrossed in somber conversation. “The poor man,” she murmured. “Poor, poor man.”
Exhaling, Peggy shoved a tangle of hair from her eyes and tried to grasp what she’d learned. Or more important, what it all meant. She’d seen Randi Howell a few times, usually at city hall when she and her fiancé, Hal, had dropped in on the mayor. As Peggy recalled, Randi was stunning in an outdoorsy kind of way, with dark blue eyes and a wild mane of curly black hair that seemed ready to explode from the braids she favored.
Peggy had thought her rather shy, because she rarely spoke unless spoken to, and avoided eye contact. It seemed odd that a meek, apparently pliable young woman would be drawn to a man of such opposing temperament. Certainly no one had ever accused Hal Stuart of being timid. Brash, yes. Perhaps even controlling. But never timid.
As much as Peggy liked Hal’s mother, Olivia, she’d never much cared for the mayor’s ambitious offspring. There was something, well, furtive about him. Shifty.
And, of course, to Peggy’s way of thinking, Hal Stuart had one other fatal flaw. He was male.
Peggy didn’t exactly dislike men; she simply didn’t trust them, and with good reason. Still, there were exceptions. A certain heroic, cab-driving cowboy came to mind—”Poor Hal,” Marsha murmured again. “He’s devastated, positively devastated.”
Pushing away a niggle of guilt at having thought ill of a man who was clearly troubled, Peggy managed an empathetic smile. “It’s a shame the wedding didn’t go as planned, but I’m sure Randi will turn up soon, they’ll talk things out and everything will be just fine.”
Marsha waved that away as irrelevant. “Randi Howell is no loss to a man like Hal Stuart. He was too good for her to begin with. But he and Olivia were so close—” She sobbed into the tissue, perplexing Peggy even more.
“I don’t understand. What has Olivia got to do with the wedding?”
The woman’s shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. “No one knew,” she blubbered, nearly incoherent now. “She seemed so vibrant, so strong. No one knew her heart was weak.”
A chill skittered down Peggy’s spine. “Has something happened to the mayor?”
Marsha shuddered, sniffed, clutched Peggy’s hand. “Oh, my dear, her assistant found her on the kitchen floor shortly after the lights went out.”
“A heart attack?” When the woman nodded miserably, Peggy clutched the bedclothes. Olivia Stuart was a brusque woman, but a kind one. She’d gone out of her way to help Peggy through one of the most traumatic times of her life. Peggy adored her. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Not Olivia.”
Snatching another tissue, Marsha blew her nose again, then fixed Peggy with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m so sorry, dear. I know you were close.”
“People recover from heart attacks all the time. I know it’s serious, but she’ll be all right, won’t she? She has to be all right.”
Marsha gazed back toward the spot where Hal Stuart had been standing. He was gone. She closed her eyes a moment, then faced Peggy. “No, dear, she won’t be all right. Olivia is dead.”
* * *
It was late afternoon before Peggy was moved up to the maternity ward. As promised, the twins were brought to her, whereupon she promptly unwrapped them again to study every appendage on their pink, healthy little bodies. Satisfied and brimming with maternal love, she dressed them carefully, then cuddled her beloved infants until the floor nurse insisted she needed rest and whisked them back to the nursery.
An hour later Peggy was awake, restless. She couldn’t sleep because her stitches hurt and her mind was awash with conflicting emotions—love for her beautiful new babies, mingled with terror at the responsibility of raising them alone, and profound grief at the death of a woman who’d been her friend.
Life was so fragile, so precious.
An image flashed through her mind, a fleeting memory of glowing brown eyes, a tender kiss brushed across her newborn daughter’s brow. The stranger had saved her baby’s life, and she couldn’t even recall if she’d thanked him.
At that moment, her memory of the man became so crisp, so clear, that she could literally see him standing there, hat in his hands, eyes shifting with shy, western charm that was oddly endearing. She smiled at the apparition.
It spoke to her. “I, ah, didn’t mean to disturb you, ma’am.”
She blinked, frowned. “It’s you.”
Looking perplexed, he aimed a quick glance over his shoulder, then eyed Peggy warily. “Yes’m, I guess it is.”
She pushed herself up and wiped a tangle of hair from her eyes. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
Startled and a bit crestfallen, he backed toward the open door. “I just wanted to, uh, see how you were doing. I’ll be going now—”
“No!” She bolted upright, whipping back the covers as if preparing to chase after him. He froze, his eyes huge. “I’m glad you’re here,” Peggy said, wondering where that peculiar bubbly voice had come from. “I really wanted to see you again.”
That seemed to unnerve him. “You did?”
“Of course. I wanted to thank you.”
“No need, ma’am.”
“You saved my children’s lives, and probably mine, as well. I’d say that deserves at least a modicum of gratitude.” She cocked her head, amused by his obvious discomfort. “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to say, ‘Aw, shucks, ma’am, it weren’t nothing’?”
He widened his eyes, then narrowed them, but a smile played around the corner of his mouth. “You poking fun at me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On your promise never to reveal to a living soul anything I did or said in the back of that cab.”
His grin broke free. “Such things are a private matter.”
“You’re a good man, Mr.—” She cocked a brow in question.
“Stockwell, ma’am. Travis John Stockwell.” He stepped forward, extending his hand.
Peggy took it, feeling the abrasion of calluses against her palm. This was a man who did more than drive cabs, she realized. These were work-worn hands, with strong fingers toughened by years of hard labor. Clyde’s hands had been soft.
Clyde had been soft.
“Ma’am?”
“Hmm?” Blinking up, Peggy realized that she still had a grip on the cowboy’s hand and was studying his softly haired knuckles as if they contained universal secrets. She released him reluctantly. “Well, Mr. Stockwell—”
“Call me Travis.” His dark eyes twinkled with good humor. “All things considered, I think we’d best be on a first-name basis.”
She felt herself blush, but couldn’t keep from smiling. “In that case, I’m glad to meet you, Travis. I’m Peggy Saxon.”
“Peggy.” The name slid off his tongue sweetly, with a soft twang that made it sound almost exotic. “That’s real pretty.” He regarded her intensely for a moment, then glanced around the room. “So, the babies are doing okay?”
“They’re wonderful, pink and