The Prodigal Wife. Susan Fox P.

‘us’ in that. Just you.”

      The way he’d said “just you” somehow emphasized what he didn’t say: she’d gotten all the benefits of her father’s will—what would actually amount to several million dollars worth of benefits—without giving Gabe a single thing in exchange but trouble and public embarrassment. It was obvious he didn’t consider her offer of financial compensation to be enough to satisfy him.

      But she had to remember that everyone in their part of Texas had known that they’d married, so it followed that everyone had to have noticed that she’d never lived a moment with Gabe as his wife. And because neither of them had ever lived as hermits, the gossip about them must have been intense.

      She’d let old friendships drift to protect herself from hearing it, but Gabe had lived here knowing it was swirling around him, though she doubted anyone would have dared to repeat it to his face.

      The guilt she’d felt these last weeks was suddenly nothing compared to the guilt she felt now. Nausea rose like a tidal wave as she felt the jaws of a trap snap tighter and tighter on her conscience.

      Because she’d deprived Gabe of the marriage he’d bargained for, he was insisting that she live up to her vows and continue it. But the idea was terrifying. It wasn’t possible to have a normal marriage with him now, not after five whole years of hateful estrangement.

      “Please, Gabe,” she croaked, but he spoke almost before she’d finished saying the short syllable of his name.

      “I want heirs.”