Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  Steve was grim lipped and formal with her, not helping in the least. She knew just by looking into his eyes that he was deeply hurt by her sudden, and to him unexplainable, engagement. But in her own mind she was committed to Lance. It seemed crazy, even to her, when she lay in bed and trembled from wanting Steve. But she couldn’t give Lance up. She’d waited too long for him to finally want her.

  Long after the workmen had lined up for chow, Ian Macready walked over to where Steve was pounding an unfortunate nail into wood. “Hey, laddie…hey!”

  Steve straightened and let the hammer hang down by his side.

  “Laddie, laddie. It’s only a house we’re building here.”

  “No, it isn’t!”

  “It isn’t?” Ian asked, frowning. “Then mayhap ye could be telling me just what the hell it is we’re doing here?”

  “We’re…never mind,” Steve growled.

  To Ian, Steve had the alert, worried look of a man in love. Ian would have said more, but one of the cooks came by and stopped to ask a question.

  Steve fled. At first he didn’t know where to go. Out of sight of the men, he changed direction and climbed the mountain. At the top, panting and exhausted, he sank down on a mat of pine needles. Dusk had dimmed the desert. Glorious red and purple clouds hung above the horizon, casting a warm glow on the glistening treetops. To the south of Samantha’s adobe palace the desert shimmered like a vast ocean.

  He was losing his mind. He’d almost told Ian…

  Only a fool would have gotten that involved. He lay there until the sky darkened and filled with stars. He wanted her so badly he ached all over.

  His mind flashed an image of Samantha holding the dying Indian baby, crying silently and with fierce hurt, then to another image of her holding Nicholas on her lap. She loved deeply—from a compassionate heart—and she evoked fierce tenderness in him.

  Steve had had relationships with women, but he’d never fallen in love. And it was a good thing. When Samantha Forrester withdrew, he ached like a bad tooth. What if he’d fallen in love with her?

  He was grateful he hadn’t. She was a woman tied to the land. She wouldn’t leave, and he couldn’t stay. There was no future for them together. Even so, he yearned for her, saw her face in every window, smelled her peppermint scent in his dreams, worried about her problems, and her son.

  He and Samantha had been estranged ever since he’d made love to her. And it had felt perversely good to deny himself the luxury of pursuing her. He had remained aloof because he knew he didn’t love her. He wanted her, but he fully intended to ride away when this house was finished. With that as his goal, it would have been wrong to pursue her. Wrong to continue something he had no intention of staying around to finish.

  Someone below called his name. He heard it faintly but didn’t respond. He couldn’t go back to the work site until he knew what to do. He realized he might starve to death or freeze before he figured it out, but it didn’t matter.

  He stared at the stars. He didn’t remember the sun setting. The moon rose, and still he lay there, slightly chilled, paralyzed into immobility.

  Finally the answer came to him. The last of the human freedoms was the ability to choose one’s attitude in any given circumstance. He had to remain aloof, polite, deferential. He would not fall in love with her, and he would not allow her to make a public fool of him.

  In August a letter finally arrived from Jennie Kincaid announcing that Leslie Van Vleet, Peter’s wife and Jennie’s sister-in-law, had given birth to a boy. “Why don’t you give a party to show all of us your new house?” Jennie suggested. “I’m sure by the time it’s done, the baby will be old enough to travel.

  “We don’t see much of Lance anymore. He went to San Francisco for a few days and then had an accident stepping off the train. He tripped over a trunk and broke his left arm. He’s been laid up for weeks. Chane saw him last week, and he’s finally out of the cast and beginning to be his old self again. I would have written immediately, but he asked me not to. You know how he is with his stubborn pride.”

  Samantha sagged into a chair. Lance had been injured and hadn’t even bothered to write to her. Add to that the birth of a new baby in the family. She knew he had to be miserable.

  Samantha considered going to see him, but now her pride wouldn’t let her. She’d rushed West years ago when he was injured, and all it had gotten her was a broken heart. If he wanted her, he would have to send for her.

  But the party was a good idea. Samantha set a date for the first weekend in November, a belated Halloween party. She would invite Rathwick for Tristera. And she would invite Joe and Chila Dart, but she didn’t expect them to come. All the Kincaids—Jennie, Chane, and their children; Uncle Chantry, Aunt Elizabeth, and Mrs. Lillian; Peter, Leslie, and the new baby; Lance; Stuart, Maggie, and Buffy. All her neighbors.

  The next morning she wrote out the invitations and sent a man into town with them. Samantha suddenly felt as if she were hitched to a team of horses, being pulled toward an unknown fate. She tingled, energized by impending disaster. She had a great deal to do to get ready. In only a few weeks, Lance would come to see her new house. And she would know what his miracle was, and if she was really going to marry him. She trusted that it would all come clear to her—that even her confused feelings for Steve would finally make sense.

  The second Sunday in September, Nicholas talked Tristera into going with him up the mountainside. When he didn’t have anything else to do, he liked to hide and watch the pine squirrels.

  As they neared his hiding place, Nicholas shushed Tristera. “Now sit real quiet. I want you to see this.”

  Smiling, Tristera sat where he pointed. Nicholas was much better at keeping himself busy now. Steve Sheridan had had a good effect on the boy. She hoped Samantha realized that.

  “See up there?” Nicholas whispered.

  High up in the top of the pine tree, a squirrel bit off a pinecone and dropped it. The squirrel watched until the pinecone hit the ground.

  As Nicholas and Tristera watched, the squirrel on the ground ran over to the pinecone, barked, picked it up, and ran off with it. “See?” Nicholas whispered, “They’re partners.”

  Another pinecone dropped; a blue jay from a nearby tree swooped down, picked up the cone, and flew off with it. In a few seconds he flew back, looked around to be sure the squirrel was nowhere in sight, and swooped down to get another.

  As he picked it up and flew off with it, the squirrel ran into the clearing and saw the blue jay flying away, pinecone in its beak. The squirrel turned around and ran behind a bush and waited. Soon the blue jay came back for another of the cones that were dropping every few seconds from the top of the tree. While the squirrel chattered incessantly, the jay took a cone and flew away with it. This time the squirrel on the ground followed him to his cache—a hollow stump of a tree, not far from Nicholas and Tristera’s hiding place.

  The blue jay dropped the cone into the stump and went back for another one. But the squirrel climbed into the stump, picked up one of the cones, and carried it away.

  From that time on, the blue jay took the dropped cones, flew them to the stump, and the squirrel on the ground took them out and carried them away.

  “Isn’t that something?” Nicholas asked, his voice filled with wonder. “They’re about the smartest animals I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  “All animals are that smart. Otherwise they’d be dead,” Tristera said.

  “Are they?”

  “Sure.”

  That pleased Nicholas. “You think they’re as smart as us?”

  “Maybe smarter.”

  On Monday Nicholas finished his chores early. Tristera was busy with his mother, so he climbed up the mountain alone to watch the squirrels again.

  As he sat in his favorite place, one of the pine squirrels ran down the tree trunk and into the clearing. It picked up one of the pinecones and began to tear into it with its sharp teeth. As the squirrel sat there, biting at the cone, a coy
ote ran in from the side of the clearing opposite Nicholas, right toward the small unsuspecting squirrel’s back.

  “Run!” Nicholas yelled, jumping up to scare the coyote away. All his yelling did was confuse the squirrel, who dropped his pinecone, barked at Nicholas, and turned to run the wrong way.

  “No! No!”

  The squirrel ran right into the mouth of the coyote, who grabbed it by the neck and shook it hard. The squirrel screamed; other squirrels joined in with their frightened cries. Nicholas ran at the coyote, who dropped the squirrel and loped away.

  Nicholas knelt beside the squirrel. He picked it up; its head fell limply to the side. Crying, Nicholas carried the squirrel down the mountain.

  Steve heard the sound of Nicholas’s wails and started up the mountain. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  Tears streaming down his cheeks, Nicholas held out the dead squirrel. “I tr—tried to save it,” he said, sobbing.

  Steve took the squirrel in one hand and lifted Nicholas into his arms with the other. “What happened?”

  “A coy—coy—coyote…” His sobs overwhelmed him.

  From inside the house, Samantha heard Nicholas howling. She dropped the broom and ran outside, her heart constricted with fear. Following the sound of his sobs, she ran around the side of the house and froze in place.

  Steve was holding a limp, bloody squirrel in one hand and Nicholas in the other. Nicholas’s arms were around Steve’s neck. Her son’s loud sobs were filled with heat and anguish. She wanted to rush forward, but something held her there, unnoticed by either of them.

  Gently, without disturbing Nicholas, Steve lay the squirrel on the waist-high porch rail and cradled Nicholas with both arms, rocking him from side to side. Nicholas’s arms were tight around Steve’s neck, his legs hung limply. The two seemed welded together in shared sentiment. Steve’s eyes were closed, but emotion radiated from him. Samantha had never seen such communion between a man and a boy. Her lungs quivered with her own emotion. Finally Nicholas’s howls subsided into quiet sobs. “I sh—should have saved him,” Nicholas wailed.

  “You did the best you could, son. That’s all any man can do.”

  Nicholas sucked in a shaky breath. Deeply touched, Samantha turned and slipped back into the house.

  “What happened?” Tristera asked.

  “I don’t know, but a squirrel is dead—and Nicholas feels terrible.”

  “Ohhhh,” Tristera said, her eyes filled with sadness. “Nicholas loves the squirrels so much.”

  Later, when Nicholas came in and told Samantha about the incident he was calm and amazingly composed. That night Samantha couldn’t sleep. She kept seeing Steve holding Nicholas, rocking him from side to side, eyes closed.

  She had no idea why, but she felt four years old and abandoned by parents, who had only pretended to love her. She felt sick and awful, as if she were back in that smelly orphanage with the icy English winds blowing through it.

  Samantha sat up in bed, too agitated to lie still any longer. She slipped into her robe and slippers and walked to the outside door. Steve would probably be asleep. She had no business seeking him out at this time of night, but she had to thank him for his kindness to Nicholas.

  The compound was silent. Even the birds were asleep. Stars in the crisp, cold night air were as bright as candles on a chocolate cake. She hurried across the yard to Steve’s cottage, knocked lightly on his door, and waited.

  Finally, running one sturdy hand through dark, tousled hair, Steve opened the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Steve looked groggy. “What’s wrong?”

  He smelled like soap. A pulse started in her throat. She could suddenly feel the way his skin would taste to her lips. “I needed to thank you…for being so kind to Nicholas today…when the squirrel was killed.” Her throat was so tight the words squeezed out husky and constricted.

  That cleared his sleep-dazed mind. “I’m no Lando, but I’m not such an animal that I can’t extend a little human kindness to a boy in need.” Furious, he started to close the door.

  Instinctively Samantha stepped into the opening. “Steve, please don’t be angry—”

  “If you want to maintain a professional relationship with your builder, don’t come to his house in your nightclothes.”

  Samantha swallowed. “I only wanted—”

  “I don’t want your gratitude,” he said, interrupting her. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her face crumbling. A low moan in her throat echoed in his loins.

  She looked so miserable, he jerked her inside and closed the door. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?” he demanded.

  “N-no.”

  “What the hell are you doing here then?”

  Samantha couldn’t answer.

  “Don’t you know what animals men are? You can’t come to my house in the middle of the night in your goddamn nightclothes.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated miserably.

  “Dammit, Samantha, I have good intentions, but they only work if you help them. I can’t do it all,” he said gruffly.

  “I’m so…sorry—” She started to cry.

  “Samantha,” Steve whispered, groaning and pulling her into his arms. “Don’t cry. For God’s sake, don’t cry.”

  Her muffled sobs shook her whole body. Steve leaned against the wall and cradled her wet face with his hands. “Oh, God, Samantha. Don’t you know how weak I am?”

  With a groan he lifted her face and set his mouth over hers, tasting her tears and the sweetness of her wet cool trembling mouth. It slowly warmed under his kiss; he knew he had to stop, but he couldn’t. The part of him that was still furious with her for becoming engaged to another man wanted to fling her away from him, but the silkiness of her hair, the warm, woodsy fragrance of her peppermint perfume, the magnetic attraction of her skin, all worked to undo him.

  Samantha was barely aware that he picked her up and carried her to his bed. She was too caught up in the whirlwind of her own emotions. Her head spun. Her body responded to his every touch. She wanted everything, even his fury. And he seemed as out of control as she. As caught up in the madness and hunger and pain as she.

  He claimed her roughly; too soon she groaned and felt her insides spasming in the first waves of ecstasy. She tried to hold back, to prolong the rapture, but her body felt like a bellows pumping out warm, hot liquid to match his own.

  “Oh, God, Samantha,” Steve moaned, going limp. He pulled her close to him, kissed her mouth, then fell back on the bed, groaning. “I spend half my life trying not to let you seduce me.”

  “And the other half?” she asked, panting.

  “This changes nothing,” he said wearily. “You still have Lando, and I’m still unemployed when I finish this house.”

  “What are we going to do?” she asked, choked with sudden grief. Tears filled her eyes and wouldn’t be gulped back.

  Steve groaned. “Don’t cry,” he whispered. “I can’t stand to see you unhappy.”

  “But…I…am.” She had never been more unhappy in her life. “I shouldn’t have come here…”

  Steve wanted to kill that bastard Lando. “You’re engaged to a damned phantom,” he growled.

  “It’s my fault, though. Everything is,” she wailed.

  She cried, and Steve held her. Finally her sobs subsided; she pressed her wet face against his chest. “What are we going to do?”

  “I guess you’ll marry Lando, and I’ll ride away cursing you both,” he whispered, his lips finding hers.

  The image his words had painted caused a sharp spear of pain that started at her heart and moved slowly downward, engulfing her. Samantha sobbed and returned his kiss.

  “Make love to me, Steve.”

  “I’m not going to fall in love with you,” he whispered, kissing her cheeks, her eyes, her chin.

  “I’ll stay away from you,” she vowed. “I promise.” She knew
she was babbling, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except being in his arms.

  “Samantha, dammit, I can’t keep making love to you. I’m getting in over my head here.” But he knew it would have been easier to leap off the mountain than to let her go.

  “Damn me,” she whispered. “Do whatever you want, but hold me,” she begged, tears streaming out of her eyes.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” he groaned, smoothing back her damp hair with a trembling hand. He needed to send her back to her own bed, her own fiancé, but he couldn’t let go of her, either. In despair, Steve kissed her.

  He was more tender this time, but his tenderness hurt her more than his rage had. Samantha took his kisses and gave back her soul. Nothing mattered except this giving, this man whose mouth teased and tortured her with soft, sweet, provocative kisses. And finally, with his weight pressing her into the mattress and his mouth caressing hers, he entered her, and, for the second time in months, her body no longer felt deprived.

  Samantha’s intentions were good, but she couldn’t stay away from Steve. And he seemed to have forgotten his vows to avoid her, too.

  The last two weeks of September were hot, but it was one of the happiest times of Samantha’s life. Two or three times a week Steve left Ian in charge and they sneaked away separately and met on the mountain to talk, kiss, and sometimes, when they felt secure enough, to make love.

  Samantha took an avid interest in the building. Every day she went to Steve with another small change she wanted. When he glanced up and saw her he smiled—and she felt young and pretty again. The world was a brighter place. Even Nicholas looked healthier than he had in years.

  Steve smiled a lot in spite of her “help” on the house, the heat, coping with cranky workmen, and the party that was hanging over all their heads, threatening to be the culmination to everything—the housebuilding, their affair, even the land dispute.

  The second-story brick walls were in place; two porches had been added on the ground floor. The house looked almost finished on the outside. Inside, carpenters pounded oak boards into place. The house smelled of new wood, glue, and varnish.