Forgotten Vows

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Dear Reader

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Copyright

“Do I Know You?” Jennie Asked.

Did she? Had she ever really known him?

“Once…” Edward said, swallowing back every angry word he’d ever wanted to hurl at her, gentling his voice as he gentled his words.

She tightened her hand on his. “Before?”

“Yes,” he said, knowing instinctively that she meant before whatever had brought her to Avalon.

Tears trembled on her lashes, and her soft lower lip quivered slightly. “Who are you?” she asked, grasping his arm. “Who am I?”

Edward covered her hand with his. How could he tell her she was his wife and that he desperately wanted her back?

* * *

“Ms. Moon writes with a spellbinding intensity that will keep you up till the wee hours of the morning until the last page is turned.”

—Romantic times

Dear Reader,

Can you believe that for the next three months we’ll be celebrating the publication of the 1000th Silhouette Desire? That’s quite a milestone! The festivities begin this month with six books by some of your longtime favorites and exciting new names in romance.

We’ll continue into next month, May, with the actual publication of Book #1000—by Diana Palmer—and then we’ll keep the fun going into June. There’s just so much going on that I can’t put it all into one letter. You’ll just have to keep reading!

This month we have an absolutely terrific lineup, beginning with Saddle Up, a MAN OF THE MONTH by Mary Lynn Baxter. There’s also The Groom, J Presume?— the latest in Annette Broadrick’s DAUGHTERS OF TEXAS miniseries. Father of the Brat launches the new FROM HERE TO PATERNITY miniseries by Elizabeth Bevarly, and Forgotten Vows by Modean Moon is the first of three books about what happens on THE WEDDING NIGHT. Lass Small brings us her very own delightful sense of humor in A Stranger in Texas. And our DEBUT AUTHOR this month is Anne Eames with Two Weddings and a Bride.

And next month, as promised, Book #1000, a MAN OF THE MONTH, Man of Ice by Diana Palmer!

Lucia Macro,

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave, P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A SX3

Forgotten Vows

Modean Moon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MODEAN MOON

once believed she could do anything she wanted. Now she realizes there is not enough time in one life to do everything. As a result, she says her writing is a means of exploring paths not taken. Currently she works as a land-title researcher, determining land or mineral ownership for clients. Modean lives in Oklahoma on a hill overlooking a small town. She shares a restored Victorian farmhouse with a six-pound dog, a twelvepound cat, and, reportedly, a resident ghost.

Dear Reader,

When asked to participate in the celebration of the one thousandth Silhouette Desire, I was honored. As a writer, I am relatively new to the line, but as a reader, I have been around since the beginning—as have many of you.

A thousand books? It didn’t feel like nearly that many when I was anxiously waiting for the next month’s selection because I had already read the current month’s. Did it feel that way to you?

All I ever really wanted to do was tell stories. My favorite picture of me is at about age three, in the front yard with my dolls all lined up—a captive audience, indeed—to listen to the latest of my tales. Today I feel the same sense of wonder when I complete a story. And now, my readers can talk to me. When I receive a letter from Barbara or Martha or Lulu or you telling me how much you liked that story, or when you silently tell me by buying my book, I feel just like that delighted three-year-old in her short skirt and Mary Janes. Thank you, Desire, for making that possible.

As a writer, I feel constrained to be quiet and professional as I express my appreciation for the way my work has been received. But as a reader who still eagerly awaits the great selection of stories and characters and emotions available to us each month between these familiar red covers, what I most want to say is “Way to go, Desire! May there be many thousands more!”

Best wishes,

Prologue

S he would die.

That’s what the doctors said when the woman was brought into the newly opened emergency trauma center of the small community hospital. But because they were doctors, and because this unconscious woman was the first true emergency to be brought into their shining new facility, they cleansed and patched and stitched so that when the moment of death came, which seemed imminent, she would at least be clean and whole. Then they called in the hospital chaplain.

The chaplain administered the sacrament of unction, then sat with the woman, who seemed little more than a child, mourning the waste of this young life and grieving for the pain this loss would cause her family, whoever they might be. But when she clung to life with a tenacity that amazed even him, he said a small prayer and contacted his cousin, vicar of the most affluent church in this well-to-do community for help.

It so happened that the lesson for the previous Sunday had been from the Gospel of Matthew. “…inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me,” and the vicar had preached what he considered to be one of his finest sermons in almost fifty years of service, admonishing his flock to share their blessings as well as count them during the Thanksgiving season in order to prepare themselves for the coming season of Advent. Determined to discover the effectiveness of his sermon, the vicar called on one of the leaders of his congregation, the hospital administrator.

The hospital administrator was not willing to donate the use of an exorbitantly expensive bed in the intensive care unit to the still-unconscious, unidentified and probably uninsured woman, no matter how obviously fine her clothes had been prior to her injuries. But, with gentle prompting from the vicar, he recalled that a number of semiprivate rooms were not currently in use, and, since the staff and facilities were available, he consented, without grumbling about the cost, to letting her be installed in one such room.

She would die.

That’s what the doctors said on the third day, when the infection in the woman’s lungs became pneumonia and it was obvious that she had no resources left with which to fight the disease. But the vicar had been quite busy. Donations of flowers, money and nursing care flooded the hospital. The vicar stood back, smiling gently, pleased with his flock who had opened their hearts, or at least their pocketbooks, to this waif who had quite literally been dropped into their midst.

And still she clung to life.

Matilda Higgins was a retired registered nurse who had thought she was at long last through with all-night duty. Not having much of a pocketbook, though, and thinking of her own daughters and granddaughters, she had given what she could: her time—through the long hours after midnight.

Matilda sat in a comfortable chair in the hospital room, knitting by the light of a single, discreetly angled lamp, as she had for five nights, listening to the labored breathing of her patient. When the sounds of the young woman’s breathing changed, Matilda put aside her knitting, walked to the side of the bed and studied the figure lying there with the observance that had carried her through years of successful nursing.

The patient moved restlessly, awkwardly, hampered by plaster casts and splints and tape and tubes. When she was first brought in, her dark brown hair had hung past her waist. It had been necessary to cut it close to her head in order to search out and remove tiny pellets of gravel and grit embedded in her scalp, to cleanse and treat the long gash. Now her small head, swathed in bandages, stirred on the pillows; her eyes opened for the first time since she’d been found.

She looked directly at Matilda without seeming to see her. Her mouth opened; a small tongue crept out to wet dry lips. “Renn?” she whispered, her voice cracked and rusty. “Renn?” And as strange as the word sounded to her, Matilda knew this must be someone’s name.

Matilda wanted to take the woman’s hand to calm the panic she heard in that lost voice, but that would have been awkward. Instead, she laid her hand on the woman’s feverish forehead. “Renn’s coming,” she said in her most comforting tone, praying that this was in fact a name, and that she had repeated it correctly, praying that this was the right thing to say.

For a moment, an expression that could have been panic, or hope, lighted the unknown woman’s eyes.

“What’s your name?” Matilda murmured. “Tell me your name, love, so we can find Renn.”

The woman in the bed closed her eyes, then opened them again, looking at, and also through, Matilda. With a little sigh, she sank against the pillow. “I’m Jennie.”

One

An hour’s hard drive north and east of El Paso, Edward William Renberg Carlton IV pulled his rented Jeep to the side of the road and stepped out, twisting and stretching to ease his cramped muscles and the knot of tension that had been tightening since the night before, when Simms had brought him the photograph.

His emotions had run the gamut the last six months— from fear to shock to anger. Now his heart and soul were desolate—as desolate as the harsh scrub-desert countryside around him, as desolate as they had been before a wisp of a girl had shown him color and shadings and laughter and, he’d thought, love. Desolate. Except for the knot of tension still tightening.

Edward reached into the Jeep and lifted the picture from its folder. She wasn’t looking at the camera. In fact, she seemed to be unaware of it as she smiled wistfully at someone out of range of the camera’s eye. She’d cut her magnificent hair. Now only a short cap of curls framed her delicate face. She’d shed weight she didn’t need to lose, honed down, and lost the last vestiges of youthful softness.

“Damn it!” he muttered, forcing his fist to relax before he crushed the photograph. “Why?”

But neither the prairie dogs, the coyotes, the hawks nor the scruffy cactus answered him.

He stopped again much later, just outside the town of Avalon, his destination. A mile after leaving the highway, on a curve overlooking the naturally terraced mountainside, he pulled to the verge and looked through a break in the trees—towering pines, majestic oak, hickories and walnuts—at a town that seemed out of someone’s fantasy. He’d expected rural Southwest, perhaps even mountainous West, not a turn-of-the-century village. Not abundant, manicured and carefully planted and tended green.

He shook his head once, as though to clear it, and heard a bell, a church bell, tolling the hour. From where he’d stopped, he could see at least three churches—white frame, red brick, and one gray stone.

Leave it to Jennie to find a place like this. He felt his pain rising to choke him and fought it the only way he knew how, with his anger. Damn it! Damn her! Her whole life had been an illusion. Why should her hiding place be any different? And damn him for giving her the power to hurt him.

If he’d gone to the apartment he kept in the city last night instead of lingering at the office, Simms wouldn’t have found him to show him the picture that had ripped open wounds he’d convinced himself had begun to heal. If Madeline, his administrative assistant, had had her way, if he hadn’t heard her arguing in his outer office, Simms wouldn’t have been allowed in to show him the picture. Madeline was only trying to protect him, as she had for years. She couldn’t understand why he had to know, had to confront, had to ask, “Why?”

The eight-by-ten black-and-white photo and accompanying text had been sent to Simms, the city editor of San Francisco’s largest newspaper, with a polite inquiry as to whether it would rate a small feature, and, if not, would Mr. Simms please refer the material to the advertising department for a paid ad. The letter was signed by Wilbur Winthrop, vicar of St. Alban’s Church, Avalon, New Mexico, and said simply, “Do you know this woman?” The vicar had no way of knowing the Carlton family had owned that newspaper for four generations. Or had he?

Edward had taken the picture from Madeline and the letter from Simms before Madeline had a chance to see it. He’d left his office, taking Simms with him long enough to swear him to secrecy about the photo and the contact’s name and address, then left the building. Later, after Madeline had left no fewer than five messages on his answering machine, and had come to his apartment but had not gotten past the new security guard, he’d left that building, too. And finally, he’d left the city.

There was a small airport just outside of Avalon. Edward had noticed that while readying to leave. But he’d flown his executive jet into El Paso instead, because he hadn’t been sure of the availability of a rental car, hadn’t been sure he wanted to announce his presence in Avalon so blatantly and hadn’t been sure he wanted anyone in his offices to know where he’d gone or the folly that had brought him here. In the anonymous Jeep, he could look over the situation and leave, if he wanted, without anyone’s—without Jennie’s—ever knowing he’d been here; leave—without seeing her.

If she’s here.

For the first time since seeing the photograph, his mind began to clear. Why would the vicar place an ad like that if she were still here? Had she used the vicar, too? The woman he’d thought he’d known wouldn’t have—couldn’t have. But then, the woman he’d thought he’d known wouldn’t have disappeared with a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bonds from his safe and after finding them nonnegotiable, she wouldn’t have ripped the stones from the rings he’d given her, returning to him only the mangled settings.

The gray stone church was St. Alban’s. Ivy grew up the wall overlooking a well-tended cemetery on the church grounds. New plantings of spring flowers bordered the sidewalks leading to the red double doors of the graceful building. The vicarage sat to one side and slightly back from the road. Like the church, the cottage was a small stone structure that needed only a thatched roof to complete the fairy-tale setting.

Edward stood on the front steps, folder in hand, and sounded the door knocker before he had time to question again the wisdom of his being there. The door opened quickly, and he found himself facing a pleasant-looking older woman.

“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling. “May I help you?” Her voice was pleasant, too, well modulated, as gracious as her surroundings, and bearing a faint trace of an English accent. In spite of the gravity of the situation, Edward felt an answering smile begging to be set free, and wondered, not for the first time since seeing the village, if magically he had been transported to some alternate reality.

“I’d like to speak with Reverend Winthrop, please,” he said.

Not by a flicker of a lash did the woman reveal any curiosity. “Certainly,” she said, opening the door wider and stepping back. “Won’t you come in? My husband is in his study. If you’ll wait in the front parlor—” she gestured to a room opening off the foyer “—I’ll tell him you’re here.”

She hadn’t even asked his name, he mused as he walked into the parlor. But perhaps as a vicar’s wife, she was accustomed to strange men knocking on her door, asking for her husband.

Or she already knew who he was.

Glancing about the room, his eye fell upon the painting. He felt as though someone had just slammed a two-by-four across his midsection. The pain was that instantaneous, that severe, when he saw the framed watercolor hanging over the mantel. He didn’t have to look at the artist’s signature; he recognized the work—a misty, otherworldly representation of the harbor during a festival of antique sailing vessels.

“That’s truly a remarkable painting, isn’t it?” a man asked from behind him. Edward used the excuse of studying the painting to calm his features and his emotions.

“My daughter sent that to me for Christmas,” the man continued. “I’ve asked her to find me more by this artist—Allison Long—but the cost of her work has skyrocketed. Oh, well. I suppose it is inevitable with talent like that. I should be grateful for the one I have.”

Was this man for real?

Edward schooled his features and turned slowly. The man across the room appeared guileless and innocent and a fitting partner for the woman who had admitted Edward to the house.

“I’m familiar with—with Ms. Long’s work,” Edward said softly, waiting.

The older man smiled. “Then we’ve both been blessed.” Then, slightly more formally, he extended his hand. “I’m Wilbur Winthrop. How may I be of assistance, Mr….”

“Carlton,” Edward told him, looking for any sign of recognition or hesitation in the vicar’s eyes and finding none. “Edward Carlton.”

“Please,” Winthrop said, gesturing toward a chintz-covered easy chair. “Sit down, Mr. Carlton. You seem… agitated. Would you care for some tea?”

“No, I—” Was he that easy to read? Edward sat in the proffered chair but refused to sink into its depths. He glanced at the folder in his hand, opened it and held the picture toward the vicar. “I’m here because of this.”

“Ah, Jennie,” Winthrop said. “Oh, my, that was fast. It doesn’t seem possible there has been enough time for it to appear in the paper and bring you here.”

That was neatly done, Edward recognized. Instead of being defensive, or volunteering information, the wily old minister was questioning him.

“The city editor knew of my interest,” Edward told him. A new thought lodged. “Did you send this to several papers or only—only the one?”

“Just the one, for a beginning,” Winthrop told him, taking a matching chair facing Edward and leaning forward. “And your interest in her… ?”

“Why?”

Winthrop blinked. “Why?”

“Why just the one paper?”

“Oh, because of its circulation. And because of her clothes. Marianna Richards recognized the one label we found as being from an exclusive San Francisco shop. And your interest in her?” he asked again.

Edward sighed. “What did she do? And how long has she been gone?”

“Do? Jennie? What makes you think Jennie did anything? And Mr. Carlton—” his voice lowered, firmed “—I really must insist you answer my question. What is your interest in our Jennie?”

Our Jennie? Edward took a deep, sustaining breath. “She didn’t mention me?”

The vicar shook his head slowly. “She mentioned only one person, if indeed she did mention anyone. Matilda was with her that night and isn’t sure she heard properly. It was a strange name, if a name at all.”

Edward studied the man across from him. He didn’t appear to be a victim, didn’t appear to be a conspirator. And, God knew, Edward had to trust someone. “I last saw her on the seventeenth of November.”

Winthrop nodded. “She came to us the week before Thanksgiving.”

“Less than—less than eight hours after our wedding.”

“Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh, dear,” the vicar said.

“When did she leave?” Edward asked, and questions welled up inside of him, spilling into the peace of the room. “How long was she here? What did she do that you found it necessary to run this?” He looked at the folder in his hand. “Did she know about it?”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the compassionate eyes of Wilbur Winthrop, who now stood before him.

“Mr. Carlton…” The vicar shook his head and crossed the room to a small cabinet, took out a glass and bottle and poured a drink, which he brought to Edward. He took Edward’s free hand and wrapped it around the squat, heavy crystal glass. “Medicinal,” he said in the same low, firm voice he had used in questioning Edward. “You really should drink it.”

Edward considered the vicar’s words and nodded. Winthrop had poured only an ounce or so of liquid into the glass. Edward drank it in two swallows, shuddered once and returned the glass to the minister. Winthrop patted his shoulder once again, placed the glass on a nearby table and resumed his place in the chair facing Edward. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he hesitated briefly as if carefully considering his words before speaking.

“Jennie came to us under extremely unusual circumstances, Mr. Carlton. And by being the warm, loving, gentle woman she is, she has touched all of us in this community.”

Winthrop’s smile was both self-deprecating and a little wry. “In case you didn’t notice, Avalon is… well, unique. And those of us who live here—who have lived here for generations—have become complacent and, to put it bluntly, more than a little smug about our obviously superior place in the world.”

Pausing briefly, the vicar continued. “Jennie’s needs—”

“What?”

Winthrop shook his head. “In good time, Mr. Carlton. You of all persons must know how special she is. Jennie’s needs jarred our self-created pedestals, forced us to look at ourselves and to reach into ourselves to give help to someone other than us or our immediate own. To give—because Jennie is who she is, because she responded to our care and caring with such openness and innocence—to give love to someone other than us or our immediate own.”

Edward again felt questions building inside of him. This woman the vicar described was the woman he’d thought he’d known, not the woman who’d left him. He felt his features hardening. What the hell was going on? He lifted the folder, now caught in a death grip.

“If she’s so open and honest and loving, then why—why did you find it necessary to do this?”

Winthrop reached over and peeled Edward’s fingers from the folder, which he dropped to the floor beside the chair.

“I’m sure our sheriff will want to ask you some questions, Mr. Carlton—”

“What-”

“Jennie was injured when she came to us.”

Edward felt himself trying to jerk to his feet, but Winthrop had hold of his hands, patting them as consolingly as he had earlier patted Edward’s shoulder. “I didn’t tell Jennie of my plans to contact various newspapers because I didn’t want to agitate her—or raise any false hope.”

“She’s still here, then?”

Winthrop nodded.

“Then why was the picture necessary? Why didn’t you just ask this open, honest, innocent?”