Free The Substitute Bride (The Great Wedding Giveaway Series Book 7) by Kathleen O`Brien Page A

husband every bit as much as Marly Akers did.
    No, no .  Marly rubbed her temples.  That was a stretch.  Logic alone couldn’t lead her to that conclusion, not yet, anyhow.  She was projecting her own problems onto these people. 
    And Robin certainly didn’t look pregnant.  She wasn’t suffering from morning sickness, that much was certain from those rosy, freckled cheeks and that bouncy energy.
    Surely not pregnant .
    Some idiotic voice inside her was protesting so vigorously, it was as if she had a stake in acquitting Drake of any wrongdoing. 
    It could have happened the other way around, the voice insisted.  Maybe Robin Armstrong had dumped Drake at the last minute, preferring I.B. Coole... 
    Maybe Drake had been the jiltee...
    But she didn’t believe that.  No one would toss Drake Everett away.  No one in their right mind, anyhow—and Robin Armstrong seemed perfectly sane.
    Marly sensed Joey was staring from his desk.  His keyboard had stopped clacking. He was obviously aware something wasn’t right.
    But she couldn’t worry about Joey right now.  Half-sick with her circling, illogical thoughts, and confused about why the idea of Drake jilting Robin Armstrong should upset her so, Marley stared at the frozen video.  Robin just happened to have been paused in the motion of leaning forward, her rosy brow knit.  She held one hand out, as if asking Marly for something. 
    But for what ? 
    To recognize Drake for what he was? 
    Or to look the other way?

CHAPTER SIX
    ––––––––
    D rake pulled off one work glove with his teeth, then screwed the top of his Thermos open and filled a couple of mugs with coffee, which thankfully was still steaming hot. 
    He passed the larger mug to Ibby.  Ibby had been out here on top of the old barn, hammering roof planks for hours, so he must be half frozen.
    After a mild day, the night had turned frosty, in that mercurial way Montana April sometimes had. Drake had been helping his ranch manager for only about forty-five minutes, but his face was already going numb.
    “Let’s leave the rest for tomorrow,” Drake suggested, holding his mug in front of his lips so the steam could thaw the tip of his nose.
    Ibby frowned, as Drake could have predicted he would.  Ibrahim Balthazar Coole was a slave of his overactive conscience.  If he postponed this repair just because it was dark or cold or inconvenient, he wouldn’t sleep a wink.
    “You go on in, boss.”  Ibby’s smile was genuine, with no hint of the martyr.  “Get some shuteye.  I’ll finish up the rest of this in twenty minutes, tops.”
    Drake chuckled.  Whatever Ibby was asked to do, the man always said he could handle it in ‘twenty minutes, tops’.  And he always urged Drake to take it easy, put his feet up, grab a little shuteye.
    Drake had no idea what he’d done to deserve such loyalty and sacrifice.  Maybe merely surviving, and then replacing, his wretched father.  Though Ibby’s earnest manner sometimes made him seem older, he was only thirty-eight.  He’d joined Three Horses as ranch manager when he was twenty-five, so he’d spent a lot of years under Butch Everett’s thumb. 
    At the time, Drake had just hit his teens, and his relationship with his father had hit rock bottom.  He’d understood his dad was letting the ranch fall apart, so behind the scenes he and Ibby had conspired to save the place if they could.
    And now Drake was going to sell it.  Just showed what a saint Ibby was—he didn’t even blame Drake for that. 
    They sat quietly for a few minutes, staring out over the horse paddock behind the barn. 
    “I told Styles we want a buyer who’ll keep you on.”  Drake glanced at his manager, knowing he’d understand the abrupt change of topic.  Ibby was aware Drake had signed the papers with Rick Styles this morning.  “It’s in the contract.  If they want to bring in their own manager in the first two years, they’ve got to pay you a severance.  Two