And the next thing he knew he’d agreed to come to her house to set up the system limits on Tuesday evening after she got off work at the restaurant. They would discuss the lessons…and he would stay for dinner. He wasn’t sure how that part sneaked in, but she was adamant. If he would not accept payment, she would at least feed him.
And it seemed a determined Elena de la Cova was unstoppable.
Chapter Seven
Marcos had been fidgety almost to the point of agitation ever since Elena had gotten home, and her mother, now thankfully over the flu, had said he’d been like that all afternoon.
“He’s really coming?” he demanded for the third time.
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to let him teach me?”
“We will discuss the matter. I make no promises until we have.” She gave her son a sideways look. “But you must leave me alone to cook or we will have no dinner tonight. Unless of course you want to help.” Ignoring his look of horror, she put on her most thoughtful look. “That might impress our guest, you know, that you helped prepare dinner for him.”
Marcos blinked. “He’s staying for dinner?”
“Did I not say so?”
“I…don’t remember.”
She looked at him steadily. This was old, well-trodden ground, his habit of not paying attention. Marcos took a couple of deep breaths, his forehead furrowed as if he were thinking rapidly. Or trying to remember something. “He said—”
“He who?”
“The detective. He said his brother said when he was a kid he got surprised when other people talked to him. That’s what it’s like.”
She set down the spoon she’d been stirring the sauce with and stared at her son. She was fascinated both by her son’s unusually earnest explanation, and that Sean—there, she’d used his given name easily in her mind—had shared this with him. Clearly in an effort to help. And Marcos had responded, paying attention enough to remember this, and tell her.
“And he said he gets…edgy, he said, when there are lots of people around.” She thought of Sean’s quiet explanation about large groups drawing energy out of him. “Like me. He thinks like me,” Marcos said quietly when she didn’t speak. “I didn’t think anyone did.”
It was one of the loneliest things she’d ever heard, and it wrenched at her heart. She crossed the two feet between them and pulled her son into her arms. He seemed so small to her, and she regretted the times she’d snapped at him for not paying attention. “I did not know you felt like that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know how to explain it.”
Until Sean gave you the words.
It appeared she owed the young detective even more than she’d realized.
*
“You have the look of a Highwater.”
Sean nearly forgot to remove his hat as he stared at the woman who had answered the door, and grabbed at it hastily, juggling it and the flowers Sage had insisted he bring. He’d never met Elena’s mother, although he’d certainly seen her. Maria Valencia had been an institution at Creekbend High School, the teacher you both wanted and were terrified to have. He remembered even his father was impressed, once saying, “She runs a tight ship, but she knows her stuff. You’ll learn more from her than anyone else.”
He’d never been sure if he should be glad or sad that he’d never been assigned to her class. She taught history, and the assessment was she had a low tolerance for misbehavior, but a knack for making the subject so much more than events and dates. She had retired six years ago, unexpectedly.
And right now he felt beyond foolish, because he’d been so nervous he’d for the moment forgotten this legend was Elena’s mother, and that this was her house. He noted, probably as distraction, that he was getting better at using Elena’s first name, although it still unsettled him to think of her that familiarly. And as so often happened, the moment he thought of that instead, the correlation hit him.
Six years ago. When Elena’s husband had been killed. Her mother must have retired to help with Marcos.
He’d met many who had or would do the same in his work, so the size of that sacrifice from a mother didn’t surprise him. But it did make him feel a tug of wistfulness, of wondering what it would have been like to have a mother like that, something he’d thought long banished.
All this flashed through his mind in an instant, before it was quashed by the sudden certainty of what he was seeing. This woman was as tall as her daughter, and only the slightest bit rounder. Her hair, just as dark and piled on her head in a style that looked more time-consumingly intricate than Elena’s usual simple bun, was threaded with silver she’d made no effort to hide. There were faint lines around her eyes and mouth, but her eyes were bright and clear and her mouth smiling, so the lines didn’t matter. She was every bit as regal as her daughter. Or perhaps it should be the other way around; this is where Elena’s bearing, her elegance came from. She would probably be—that other part of his brain made the calculation—about sixty now, around the same age his father would have been.
And she was, undeniably, beautiful.
All of this slammed through his mind like a train of berserk bumper cars, in that way that threatened to spiral out of control if he didn’t rein it in. So he focused on the certainty that had hit him.
He was looking at future Elena. The resemblance was so strong even now he had no doubts. Time would have little effect; the daughter would be as beautiful as the mother.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed now, and had to make himself remember what she’d said about him looking like a Highwater.
“My sister says we’re like buckskin horses—the look goes on.” He groaned inwardly. Great. Now he’d just compared his family to horses. Not that they would mind, but this was a refined, dignified woman, just like her daughter.
But at his words her smile widened. “I believe they also say buckskins are as tough as wet leather,” she said, and there was an absolute twinkle in her dark eyes as she said it.
And suddenly he was laughing. And that relaxed him enough to regain his manners. “I hope that holds true as well. As beauty obviously holds true in your family.” He handed her the small bouquet.
She took them, and smiled even wider. “Nicely delivered. You’ll do, young Highwater. Come in.”
He felt as if he’d earned some sort of prize from a very exacting judge as he stepped inside.
“I hope you’re feeling better?”
“Nearly recovered, although I still have an annoying tendency toward afternoon naps. Thank you for asking.”
The house was a large, two-story building built of the same Hill Country limestone as the saloon, and was nearly as old. But while the exterior held on to that classic feel, inside it had obviously been updated with the times, and now felt mostly like a welcoming, modern home.
Once, he knew, it had been on the outskirts of town, but as Last Stand grew it had been overtaken and was now well within the city limits. But its impressive prominence hadn’t changed, nor had the status of the family that had occupied it for nearly two centuries now. Long before he’d ever seen Maria Elena Valencia de la Cova, his father had taught him they, and other families like them, deserved the respect of all Last Stand, for it was harder for them to stand with the Texians against troops from the land where their ancestors likely were born.
“Is it him?”
The boy’s call came from the back of the house, where Sean could see the glint of stainless steel that told him the kitchen had not been ignored in the modifications. There was an eagerness in the kid’s voice that made Sean feel…he wasn’t sure what.
“It is,” his grandmother answered. An instant later Marcos appeared in the arched doorway that clearly led to the kitchen. “And this once I will forgive your yelling inside the house if you walk instead of run.”
The boy slowed obediently, but there was a tension to his walking that spoke of what he really wanted to do: run across the floor of large t
iles. They were, Sean noticed, in a near white to match the limestone, but bordered with smaller, intricately patterned tiles in shades of cool blue. And another memory clicked into place. Of the other Valencia family business, the one that had literally helped build Last Stand since the last stand.
“The original Valencia Tile?” he asked, studying the complex and distinctive pattern.
The older woman looked pleased. “Yes. A design hand painted by Elena’s quadruple great-grandfather, original to this house.”
“Beautiful, fitting, and meaningful.”
She gave him a look that seemed oddly wistful. “You make me wish I’d had you in my class.”
“There’s a teacher or five who’d disabuse you of that notion,” he said wryly.
She laughed, and Sean found himself wondering why anyone found her intimidating. But he supposed in her classroom she had a different demeanor than in her home. And just as he was wondering if she regretted leaving, the reason for it came to a halt in front of him.
“Hey, buddy,” he said with a smile.
The boy answered with an excited grin that matched the tone in his voice. “Hi, Detective Highwater.”
He pondered whether to suggest the boy just call him Sean, but decided to wait. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Great.”
The answer had come a little too quickly. “Not even a little sore? I would be, after that tumble.”
The boy looked reassured. “Maybe a little.” Then, hastily, “But not too sore for you to teach me!”
“Good to know, but it’s still up to your mom.”
“I know,” Marcos said, quieter now.
“So I guess you’ve been on your best behavior, huh?” he asked in a conspiratorial whisper that was completely audible.
“Yeah,” the boy whispered back just as loudly. “I’ve done my homework already and picked up my room, and I’m even setting the table.”
“Can’t hurt,” Sean said with a grin. Marcos grinned back.
“I’ll go get Mom,” he said. “She’s takin’ forever to pick out clothes.”
He dashed toward the stairs, leaving Sean wondering why on earth Elena would have any trouble deciding what to wear. Although he had had the same problem, wondering if jeans were too casual, and finally settling on simply donning a western tailored jacket over his usual black jeans and the black shirt with white piping, and adding a string tie he actually managed to tie fairly well.
“That is the happiest I’ve seen my grandson since his father died.”
There was such a tremulous note in Mrs. Valencia’s voice that Sean turned to look at her. She met his gaze, and he thought he saw the sheen of moisture in her eyes, the eyes of the most redoubtable teacher Last Stand had ever seen. And he realized that when it came to her family, she was as his father had been, as Shane still was, the caretaker, the guardian, the one who would make that sacrifice without a second thought.
“I thank you for that,” she said.
“I didn’t do much, Mrs.—”
He stopped when she raised a hand. “I believe you must call me Maria.”
He blinked. Lowered his gaze and swallowed. “I’m not sure I can do that.” He looked up again, saw her studying him. “You intimidate the he…heck out of me,” he admitted.
“Your reputation is as one who does not intimidate easily, according to my daughter.”
“She intimidates the heck out of me, too,” he said with a slight grimace.
She studied him for a moment. And he had the feeling she was bringing thirty-plus years’ experience of assessing students to bear. Finally she said softly, “But perhaps for different reasons?”
He sucked in a breath. Ran everything he’d said since she’d opened the door back through his mind. Had he betrayed something? Surely there was no way she could have guessed? Even his family didn’t know—well, except for Sage, and she didn’t know anything except that he thought Elena beautiful and that she greatly rattled him—he’d been crushing on her since he’d been eighteen. He’d even half-convinced himself it wasn’t true, it was just that she was tangled up in all the overwhelming emotions of that day, that time in his life.
“She’s coming,” Marcos trumpeted from the top of the stairs. “She’s just fussin’ with her hair.”
Picking out clothes? Fussing with her hair? For him? Or simply what she did for any guest in her home?
“Tell me,” the boy’s grandmother asked, “were you as loud when you were his age?”
Sean pulled his unruly mind back to reality. “Sometimes. But my dad was the loudest, when he wanted to be. He’d stand in the living room and call a family meeting without moving a foot toward whatever room anybody was in. And we’d all hear him.”
“And come running?” she suggested with a smile.
“Absolutely,” he said.
She seemed to hesitate, something else he never would have associated with the woman rumored to have quelled any disturbances in her classroom without even turning around. Then, her voice quiet and sincere, she said, “I admired and respected your father a great deal. He exemplified the phrase ‘pillar of the community.’”
Sean didn’t equivocate, for it was true. “He did. As does Shane.”
“He’s a bit young yet to be a pillar. And that silly Internet stuff is a problem.”
His gaze narrowed slightly. “None of that is his doing. The department released that terrorist shooting video, tourists recorded the stampede and the rodeo performance, and the crash aftermath photo. And as for the hell and Highwater video—”
“He still has not learned who leaked it, I gather?”
Only then did he see the twinkle in those dark eyes so like her daughter’s. And realized he’d been had. And he couldn’t help grinning. “You make me wish I had been in your class.”
“And I like the way you stand up for your brother. Family is everything, young Highwater.”
“Yes. But could you call me Sean? Then I won’t feel quite so much like I’m back in high school.”
She laughed. And that was how Elena saw them when she appeared at the top of the stairs.
Sean’s smile froze on his face as he stared upward. She wore her favored black, yes—a pair of leggings that were snug but not tight, and made it clear that her legs went on forever—but over them she wore a top with vertical black and white stripes that seemed to flow over her, both covering and emphasizing the tantalizingly curved shape beneath.
And her hair was still up as usual, but in a looser style. Wisps floated around her face, making him want to reach for them. For the thousandth time he wondered how long her hair really was. Tried not to picture it flowing halfway down her back in thick, dark waves. He had never seen it that way. He never would. Just as well, he could barely handle this.
She was taunting, breath-stealing, and ever and always elegant.
This was crazy. Even thinking this way was crazy. She was certainly seeing someone, even if she hadn’t remarried. No woman who looked like this could possibly lack for men wanting to be close to her.
And suddenly he was eighteen again, seeing that beautiful face for the first time. He swallowed tightly, then again because the first time had hurt. And as he watched her gracefully descend the stairs, he felt a jab of an old but still familiar feeling.
He was in way over his head.
Chapter Eight
They were laughing.
Elena had been so nervous, and troubled that she hadn’t been ready in time to be there when he first encountered her formidable mother—why had she dithered so long over something as simple as what to wear and how her hair looked?—and here they were laughing.
Relief warred with amazement in her mind. Her mother was usually the hardest woman in the world to impress, and yet Sean Highwater had her laughing. And when her mother looked up at her, and then back to Sean, Elena would have sworn she saw…something odd in her gaze. Something almost assessing, or even approving. It wasn’t her outfit, because she had se
en it before.
Belatedly she realized her mother was holding a bouquet of flowers, an unexpected sight in December. But the red roses wrapped in green paper and tied with a green ribbon definitely fit the season. He had brought them? He couldn’t have done anything more likely to impress her traditional mother. He—
Sean turned slightly to look up at her. His eyes widened, and she could have sworn she saw his broad chest rise as if with a quick intake of breath. And a sensation she had never expected to feel again in her life flooded her. Pleasure at the sight of a handsome man waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. Because he was handsome, incredibly so, tall, broad-shouldered and trim, with those clear, light blue eyes, dark, thick hair, and strong, clean-shaven jaw. It had been so long it took her a moment to even recognize the feeling.
Rather sexy? Did you really think that? He’s so far beyond “rather” it’s… She didn’t have a word for it.
“Sean,” she said in acknowledgment as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
He nodded. “Elena.”
“Thank you for coming to…deal with this.”
“My pleasure.” She saw him swallow, but his voice sounded normal when he said it.
Pleasure. How long had it been since it had been part of her life? She’d had the love of her family, took joy in watching her son grow, but this kind of feeling, this odd humming, the tingling awareness, had been absent for a very long time.
“Marcos, have you finished setting the table?”
“Not quite,” the boy said, and scrambled past them to run into the kitchen. After a few steps he stopped, looked back at his grandmother with wide eyes, and walked the rest of the way.
Maria looked after the boy with an expression of loving exasperation. “I will go put these lovely roses in water.” And then she followed him into the kitchen, no doubt to also supervise Marcos as she once had with Elena.
A moment of silence spun out between them before she spoke. “I have made a decision.”
A Lone Star Christmas (Texas Justice Book 3) Page 5
