Her teeth were beginning to chatter from the clinging coldness of her wet silk camisole, and the shoe strap had slipped off her left heel. She had to stop once to get her shoe back on, and when she straightened, there seemed to be even more people around. They squeezed themselves in smaller to let her get by, their faces a blur as Pop introduced each one. She kept nodding and smiling, not hearing anyone’s name as they worked their way to the back door. The house was a large, flat-roofed adobe with a porch that seemed to ramble around every side of it. There were several big trees out front, comforting after the scrubbier type of brush she’d noted briefly on her mad, rainy gallop from the plane. She wondered amid the confusion if those trees out front were Mac’s beloved cottonwoods. She could see a low adobe wall beyond them.
“Mac, you didn’t tell us how good-looking she was,” she heard a man say behind her.
“Aw, she’s all right when she lets her hair grow,” Mac observed with unnecessary loudness, and Amelia looked over her shoulder at him. She’d heard just about enough on the subject of her hair. Clearly, Houston McDade was among friends, because he was taking his wet, cannibalized sweat shirt off and using it to dry his face. He stood bare-chested and totally unselfconscious, as if he had no idea that the mere sight of him was making her heart pound. His body was beautifully formed, muscular of chest and lean of rib. There was not an ounce of fat on his midsection. He was quite simply breathtakingly male.
“What is this?” a woman’s booming voice demanded. “Mac, what have you done to her?” she cried in mock horror, taking in Amelia’s wet and muddied state. The woman was plump and about sixty years old. Rita, Pop’s second wife, Amelia guessed. She was wearing jeans and a man’s white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her wispy gray-blond hair was coming out of the knot she’d made with it at the back of her neck, and she must have been wearing half a dozen turquoise rings. Her face was flushed with the redness Amelia suspected came from being the chief cook for this crowd.
“Amelia, I’m Rita,” she said warmly ahead of Pop’s introduction. “I swear, I don’t know which of these men is the worse. Mac don’t take no better care of you than this, and that husband of mine has got to introduce you to everybody when you’re about drowned.” She looked hard at Pop, who shrugged and gave a sheepish grin he tried to hide by brushing at his white mustache.
“Now, all of you go on about your business,” Rita said, taking Amelia by the hand. “We eat when we eat—so go away and don’t bother me!”
“I’m afraid I’ve come at a bad time,” Amelia began.
“Bad time?” Rita frowned. “Oh, you mean this bunch. No, honey, this is the best time. We do this about twice a year. You’re going to love it—we probably got a schoolteacher or two for you to talk to. And that brother of yours, and Mac’s VAOO bunch from the hospital—watch out for the psychiatrist; he pinches,” Rita added, and Amelia laughed. “Where’s your suitcase? Is that all you brought?”
“My suitcase is on the plane.”
“I swear!” Rita said. “You ever notice how dumb men are sometimes?” she said with her hands on her hips. “You got anything in that bag to put on?”
“Pair of sweat pants, a T-shirt, and my running shoes,” Amelia said, grinning. She liked this woman already.
“Well, that won’t do. Mac! Get in here! You won’t be Park Avenue, but you’ll be dry. Mac!” she yelled again just as he appeared. “Find Amelia one of your shirts and a pair of old jeans. I ain’t got nothing that will stay up on a skinny little thing like her. And hurry up before she catches cold.”
Rita shooed him away again, taking Amelia into a kitchen filled with women. There was a wonderful aroma of cooking food, and Amelia was received with the understanding and sympathy over her wet state that only women could give. Amelia turned to see Mac in the doorway, a pair of jeans and a silky pink shirt in his hands.
“Here you go,” he said, handing them to her without coming the rest of the way inside. Apparently the kitchen was no-men-allowed.
“This is yours?” Amelia asked, fingering the pink shirt.
Mac grinned. “Used to be white. I wore it to my senior prom. Somebody washed it with Pop’s red longhandles.”
“Yeah, and I wonder who did that?” Rita laughed, poking his arm. “I swear, Amelia, I don’t know how these two got along before Pop decided to make an honest woman of me. Two biggest nitwits you’ll ever see.” There was great affection in her complaint.
“How long till we eat?” Mac wanted to know, and Amelia tried to keep her eyes away from his bare chest.
“I said, Houston, we eat when we eat. Amelia, you near about broke this cowboy’s heart the other night.”
“I broke his heart?” Amelia asked, still forcing herself not to look at him.
“The night he called you about Bobby and you didn’t know who he was.”
Amelia dared to glance at him. He was smiling tolerantly, but he avoided her eyes.
“I… forgot his name was Houston,” Amelia confessed.
“Yeah, I’d like to forget it myself,” Mac assured them.
“No such a thing,” Pop said, poking his head into the room around Mac. “Fine name, Houston. Named him after the place where I made him.”
Amelia laughed with the rest of them, her laughter fading as she saw Bobby in the doorway behind the two McDade men.
“I guess you know who got your dumb cows for you,” Bobby said, punching Mac’s arm. “No, don’t thank me. I just love riding all around a bunch of cows stuck in a gully—” He broke off abruptly when he saw Amelia, and she realized that she was not the only one from whom Houston McDade could keep a secret. He’d stretched the truth a bit when he’d let her think it was Bobby’s idea that she fly. Bobby hadn’t known she was coming.
CHAPTER FOUR
AMELIA KNEW PERFECTLY well that she couldn’t stay in the McDade bathroom forever, yet she couldn’t bring herself to come out. All those people were out there—and Bobby.
Bobby hadn’t spoken to her. He’d stood there in his bib overalls and his big straw hat like Mac’s that looked as if it had been stolen from Charlie Daniels, and he’d said absolutely nothing. Whatever he had on his mind he was discussing with Mac. She could hear their angry voices faintly through the wall from the room next door. She had a few angry things she’d like to say herself. Bobby hadn’t wanted her here—she’d expected that. What she hadn’t expected was the subterfuge—and all the McDades had to be part of it. Why hadn’t Mac told Bobby she was coming?
The voices stopped suddenly, and there was the closing of a door—and then Mac’s voice.
Amelia jumped at the soft knock on the bathroom door.
“Amelia?” Mac said quietly.
Amelia closed her eyes. “In a minute,” she called. She was behaving ridiculously, but she couldn’t help it. She had to shore up her defenses, and this was the only place she could do it. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. She had towel-dried her hair and combed it, making a part and pulling the long top layer over to the side. She had a cotton knit camisole in her tote, and she put that on under Mac’s clingy pink shirt. His jeans fit her tightly over her rump, but the waist was far too big, and she had to roll up the legs half a dozen times.
Amelia allowed herself the liberty of one more sigh, then opened the door. Mac stood there in dry clothes himself, ready to knock again.
“You okay?” he asked, his eyes traveling over her outfit—his outfit—looking concerned, caring.
“Nice bathroom,” she said because it rattled her so to have him look at her like that. She would handle whatever it was she had to handle, and she didn’t want him to help her. He might as well know it. “Jacuzzi and everything,” she added, slipping past him to the outer hallway. The jeans and chambray shirt that Mac now wore had been sun-dried, hung out of doors and blown by the wind. The smell of him, so clean and male, and the hand he put on her shoulder made her knees weak—a weakness she refused to acknowledge because it only called to mind her abstine
nce and the reason for it. She couldn’t think clearly. She was letting her mind be clouded by what could only be described as animal lust.
“Wait,” Mac said, his hand still on her to keep her from going to the kitchen. “I brought you a belt so your pants won’t fall down.”
“Thank you,” she said gravely. “I think I’ve entertained your guests enough without that too.” She hesitated a moment, then took the belt, careful not to touch his hand., It was a cowboy belt, hand-tooled, with a steer’s-head buckle. “Is this your prom belt too?” she asked, hiding her worry and her aggravation at his meddling—and her lust.
“Amelia,” Mac said gently as she threaded the belt through the loops on her—his—pants.
She didn’t respond, keeping her head down.
“I don’t want to talk now,” she said, forcing herself to look up at him. Their eyes met, and she felt like—like howling, like walking around with her head thrown back and crying and crying until she felt better. But she stared at him without wavering.
No man should have eyes like that, she decided.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his deep, gravelly voice surrounding her. “I didn’t want to upset you, but I—”
“All you had to do was tell me,” Amelia interrupted. “Then I could have decided what to do instead of stumbling around in the dark like this. You didn’t even tell him I was coming!”
“Don’t be mad, Amelia. There’s a reason.”
She turned away before she cried after all. “I like your house,” she said lightly.
“Do you?” he said. She could feel his understanding, his empathy. She didn’t want to feel it.
“It’s very old, isn’t it?” she asked, forcing the question.
“About two hundred and fifty years. It was built as a dance hall. That’s why that front room is so big. We’ve got hatchet marks in the front door from Indian raids.”
She smiled at that. “So do I—in the house I live in. Have you got any bloodstains or disembodied voices?”
Mac grinned. “Not that I know of. Don’t tell me Taylor Manor has spirits.”
Amelia shrugged. “Only one. But he’s very irregular. I’ll tell you about him sometime.” She could see Bobby in the kitchen—his arm and half his back through the doorway. Bobby and his bib overalls. He should have been a farmer. He should have been… something.
Amelia forced herself to look around the house. The walls had been stuccoed on the inside, with the ceiling beams and the floors left bare. She liked the stucco sculpting that had been done—fireplaces, archways that led to other rooms, nooks and niches for books or furniture. Brightly colored rugs were scattered about on the floors, and she admired the blanket wall hangings that were about—the famous Chimayo blankets, she guessed. Mac showed her the dining table and chairs that were made of cedar slats and upholstered in pigskin—genuine Southwestern furniture, he explained. She caught sight of her brother again through a large porthole above the table.
Bobby stared at her for a moment.
“Does Charlie Daniels know you have his hat?” she asked tentatively, and finally, finally, Bobby smiled.
“This is an outstanding hat,” he assured her, taking it off to admire it. “Outstanding.” Amelia reached through the porthole at it, and he grabbed her hand. He had no trouble keeping her at bay. Bobby had a blond mustache that grew in a little thin. Amelia had always thought it gave him a rakish, nineteenth-century look, like one of Nathan B. Forrest’s hell-raising cavalrymen with a fast black horse and a silver hip flask. She kept looking at him, searching for some clue that would tell her what had brought this sudden relocation about.
Bobby let go of her hand. “I hear I owe you money. I … called Daniel this morning. He said you paid him the money I borrowed. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” Amelia said.
“I don’t know when I can pay you back.”
“Bobby, it’s all right. I know you’ll pay me.”
The conversation lagged.
“Why didn’t you tell Daniel you were coming out here?” he asked after a time, propping his elbows on the edge of the porthole. He could handle seeing her, she supposed, if there was a wall between them.
“I didn’t want to,” Amelia said. She really hadn’t considered telling him.
Bobby looked at her thoughtfully. “When I talked to him I didn’t know you were coming here. He didn’t like your leaving town without telling him.”
Amelia dismissed Daniel’s concern with a shrug. She reached to touch Bobby’s arm. “You know I care about you. If I haven’t ever said that—”
“I know, Amelia.” He looked at someone behind her in a way that Amelia could only describe as pleading.
“Bobby?” she said, trying to get his attention again.
“Rita wants you, Amelia,” Mac said as if on cue, taking her by the arm. She started to protest, but Bobby reached out and ruffled her hair, then moved away. Mac was pressing her toward the kitchen. Granted, this might not be the place to talk to Bobby, but she resented being the ogre in this situation, and she was about to tell Mac so.
“Will you let go of my arm?” she said.
“Will you help Rita peel onions?” Mac asked in return, giving no more credence to her anger than he had all day.
“Mac, I want to know what—” she started, but he put his hand to her cheek, pressing gently, his fingers rough and warm against her skin.
“Not now, okay?” he asked, looking into her eyes. “Okay?” he insisted.
Amelia was about to say more, but Rita came to the doorway in the kitchen.
“Amelia, honey, I need about three big ones chopped fine,” she said, giving her a bag of onions and a paring knife. “Then if you’d just take them out to where the men are barbecuing—can you do that? I’m falling behind, and I want you in here where I can get at you.”
Amelia sighed and took the onions. Rita wanted her in here so she could keep her away from Bobby.
“Just let Mac handle it for now,” Rita said, her voice low. “You come and help me so I can tell you something.”
“What?” Amelia asked, giving in and beginning to peel an onion.
“Daniel called here this morning not long after he talked to Bobby.”
“Daniel Quinn?” Amelia said incredulously.
“Well, of course Daniel Quinn. What other Daniel do I know that you’d give a flip if he called? Seems he’s a little upset that you just left town without his permission. He don’t think much of our Mac, does he? Anyway, he got our telephone number from a Miss Lilly, your neighbor-lady that’s watching your house for you. When he found out he’d got the McDade place—Amelia, I thought he’d bust. Seems to think Mac is taking some kind of advantage of you in your bereavement.”
“What bereavement?” Amelia asked, frowning and holding the onion out of eye range.
“Losing him, honey. Losing him.”
Amelia laughed. “Oh. That bereavement.” She peeled for a while in silence.
“Well?” Rita probed.
“Well what?”
“Are you bereaved or aren’t you?”
“I’m more worried about my brother,” Amelia said pointedly, and Rita dismissed that with a wave of her hand.
“That’s going to be all right, honey. What about Daniel?”
“To tell you the truth, Rita,” Amelia found herself saying, “at first I thought I’d die. Then one day I realized I kind of liked being able to spread the Sunday newspaper all over his side of the bed. You know what I mean?”
Rita chuckled. “I know what you mean, honey. I tell you, that Daniel puts me in the mind of my first husband, Rupert. He was named after a poet—Rupert… somebody. Died in the first World War. The poet, not my Rupert. Anyway, he’s pushy, you know? Not that all men ain’t pushy, mind you, but with him it just don’t sit well, you know? All of a sudden he don’t want to be married to you anymore, but he still thinks you belong to him—that kind of pushy. And that is one pain, let me tell y
ou.”
Amelia smiled. It was certainly that. “Did Daniel say what he wanted?” Amelia asked as her eyes began to tear. She waited a moment, then went on peeling.
“No, but if he’s anything like Rupert, he wants something. Even if it’s just to straighten you out. I told him you were a grown-up woman, and if you’d wanted him to know anything, you would have told him. He didn’t like that much, and there was some woman yelling at him in the background. I tell you, Amelia, I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun on the telephone. I said I’d tell you he called, and I have. Now, are you calling him back?”
Amelia glanced at the older woman, feeling the importance Rita was attaching to the question. She went on chopping onions.
“None of my business, right?” Rita supplied with a grin. “Well, I tried to hold back, but it all got so … interesting. I’m just glad Mac wasn’t here—” She stopped abruptly.
“Why?”
“I just am,” Rita said evasively. “Now, how about carrying those onions out to the men. Just go around the side there—follow your nose.”
Amelia picked up the onions and started for the back door. She was getting the bum’s rush again, but by now she was getting used to it.
“Not now, Amelia,” she said under her breath on her way outside. “Let Mac handle it, Amelia.”
A country-western band played under the big trees in front of the house, with the clang of horseshoe pitching coming from somewhere in the background. The rain had stopped, and Amelia took Rita’s advice to follow her nose—not that she could have missed the barbecue site. This was no Tennessee affair, where one cooked cut meats on a charcoal grill. This entailed an entire side of beef turning on a huge spit and being splashed with gallons of sauce with something that looked like a wallpaper brush.
Amelia was immediately annoyed with herself for trying to spot Mac somewhere in the crowd of people and parked vehicles. She didn’t see him, and Pop was coming to meet her, taking the onions out of her hands and giving them to the man in charge of sauce. Amelia was introduced all around at the spit, still looking for Mac in spite of her resolve not to. She saw Bobby almost immediately. He had dragged out his infamous Tennessee charm and was entertaining several pretty young women with some story or other.
Such Rough Splendor Page 5
