She let her forehead come to rest in the middle of his back for a moment after all.
“What happens now?” she asked, straightening up again and wiping furtively at her eyes.
“He’ll work with a group of people who know how to help him. They’ll show him he doesn’t have to feel guilty anymore. Not for the things he did or for the things he didn’t do. Bobby’s paid his dues, and as soon as he knows it, he can get on with his life. I know it’ll be hard for you because he’s so far away from home, but I think it’s better for him here. I want to ask you not to try to talk him into leaving.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Amelia protested.
“No, I didn’t think you would, but I want you to know. You know how Bobby hates it when it rains. That’s all part of his war experience. It doesn’t rain the same way here, and it doesn’t look like where we were. I think all that’s helped him. It’s sort of like the book you gave me, Red Sky at Morning. The part about Ulysses walking inland with an oar over his shoulder until he found a place where no one knew what it was. That’s what Bobby craves.”
“He’s so sad, Mac.”
“Yes,” Mac agreed. “He is. But don’t you see, that’s good. A bad feeling is better than no feeling at all. Don’t worry about him. You know what a charming son of a—gun he is. Everybody here loves him. The girl in the red and black shirt is a… special friend. If he’s ever going to get himself straightened out, this is where he’ll do it.”
Amelia remembered the Humpty Dumpty ward suddenly, wondering how many more of them were still broken like Bobby after their fall off the wall.
“Hey,” Mac said to get her attention again. “Ready for a tour?”
“Another one?” she asked, dragging up a smile.
“We’ll do this one closer to the ground,” he said, returning the smile. He was so kind underneath all the macho pushiness, she thought. And he was so—so handsome. How was a love-starved woman supposed to hold up under that?
“I want you to see Chimayo,” he told her. “You’ll love it.”
“How far away is it?” she asked, her thighs beginning to ache from trying to stay on Willarďs rump.
“Depends on whether or not I find the road,” he said, grinning at her. He found the road and began the tour with the naming of it and every tree, plant, and flower they encountered on their way into Chimayo. He even threw in an insect or two for good measure, frequently making her laugh with his pretended cowboy unsophistication. She felt so easy with him, just as she had ten years ago. There was something in their personalities that meshed, that made them comfortable with the best and with the worst that was in each of them. He was overbearing and she was hardheaded, and they still liked each other.
“Lilacs,” she said of the numerous hedges as they entered the town on a narrow, unpaved street. “You didn’t tell me there were lilac hedges in Chimayo.”
“I didn’t?” he asked, grinning over his shoulder. “Sure I did. I wouldn’t leave out a thing like that.”
“Well, you did. You told me about the yellow roses—the rose of Castile—those,” she said, pointing toward the vines that climbed along the adobe walls enclosing several of the backyards along the street. They both ducked to miss some low-hanging limbs that stuck out from a tree on the other side of a wall.
“What else did I tell you?” Mac asked.
“Oh, about the church here. I forgot the name. The one where people come on pilgrimages. The dirt is supposed to cure illnesses.”
“El Santuario de Chimayo,” Mac supplied.
“You said that beautifully,” Amelia said, impressed. “Why didn’t I know you spoke Spanish?”
“I don’t,” Mac said, turning Willard toward a bridge over a small stream.
“I thought you were translating Marty Chevez for me.”
“Oh, that,” he said, giving her a sheepish grin over his shoulder. “I can translate that. I know back-of-the-barn-rodeo Spanish. The kind you hear from hanging out with the guys. I can’t speak the dialect here, though—”
“Cervantes,” Amelia interrupted, suddenly remembering one of their long homesick talks ten years ago. “There are people here in Chimayo who still speak in a dialect traceable to sixteenth-century Castile. The same language Cervantes used when he wrote Don Quixote.”
Mac was turning around in the saddle again. “Who told you that?”
“You did. Where else would I hear it?”
He smiled, his eyes looking into hers. “Was I sober? I can’t imagine why I’d tell a pretty woman a thing like that.”
Amelia let the compliment slide by. “You were in pain, but I think you were in your right mind. You were always telling me things like that. Don’t you remember? You were a one-man tourist bureau.”
Mac was still looking at her, letting his eyes wander over her face.
“Is that it?” she asked abruptly. “El Santuario de Chimayo?” She couldn’t get her tongue around the Spanish as easily as he did. “Can you make Willard kneel or something so I can get down? I want to see it.”
“Willard is a horse, Amelia,” he said testily. “He’s not a camel. You have to get down the best way you can.”
She got down, catching on to Mac’s elbow and sliding off, trying to suppress a grin because Mac hadn’t appreciated her overestimation of Willard’s abilities. The way to a cowboy’s pique is through his horse, she thought, letting the grin loose. She’d have to remember that whenever she wanted to annoy him.
“What’s so funny?” Mac asked as he got down. He tethered Willard to the gate in the adobe wall in front of the church. Two large cotton woods stood on either side of the gate, but they gave little shade for their size.
“You are,” Amelia assured him, standing with her hands clasped behind her back and what she hoped passed for a straight face.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She grinned. “What’s the matter, cowboy? Did I pick on your horse?”
Mac didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry,” she said with exaggerated regret. “I’ve been to enough Roy Rogers movies in my time to know better, but you’re just… a man a woman has got to pick on.” She gave a resigned sigh.
“Amelia?”
“What, Mac?” she asked, still grinning, her grin running into an alarmed squawk as he pounced on her. She managed to get free of his grasp, but only for a moment. He had her up off the ground, her arms pinned to her sides.
“You know that stream back there?” Mac said, clearly delighted that she’d been so easy to subdue. “I’m going to put you in it. Just for Willard.”
“No, Mac,” Amelia begged, certain he’d do it. “Please don’t throw me in the water—I’ve been nearly drowned once today. The sun’s going down—I’ll catch cold—now, Mac! I apologize! I know Willarďs not a camel. He’s a noble beast, worthy of princes, fit for kings!” Mac was carrying her purposefully along. “Mac! Wait! Willard is wonderful! Honest!”
Mac stopped walking. “Well,” he said, somewhat mollified and having to work to keep from smiling. “That’s more like it.” But he didn’t let her go. Her breasts were pressed against the hardness of his chest, and he stood there in the semi-shade of the cottonwoods, his almost-smile fading as he looked into her eyes. Their breaths mingled, and Amelia’s lips parted in expectation as she stared back into those hazel eyes. Whatever he had in mind, she wanted him to do it, but he set her down abruptly, turning away and walking toward the church again.
“Come inside and see,” he said without looking at her, his voice distant and strained. “You’ll like it.”
Amelia hesitated a moment, then followed, trying to ignore her pounding heart and trembling knees. Mac was firmly entrenched again in his role of tour guide, taking her through the quaint little adobe church and giving her historical data as if he were being tested on it. She followed him around from place to place in the church, frankly bewildered at his sudden drawing of boundaries and more than annoyed because she hadn’t set those boundaries her
self. He belonged to someone here, she decided as she listened to his description of the discovery of the church’s curative powers. He couldn’t be seen tussling with a strange woman—and that’s fine, she told herself further. She was too vulnerable to let herself become involved with a man now. She had no intention of becoming involved.
“Want something to drink?” he asked politely when they came out of the church into the sunlight.
“Sure,” Amelia said, her voice casual and offhand.
Mac took her to a small store—a trading post, the sign said—with a list of its wares painted on the adobe wall outside: gas, oil, candy, sodas, and religious artifacts for sale. A FRESH UP WITH 7-UP sign was somehow attached to the wall as well, and a Lucky Strike cigarette poster stood in the window. And, inside, she recognized a savory aroma—homemade tamales.
“Want one?” Mac asked, a shadow of a grin coming to play at the corners of his mouth.
“No, thank you,” Amelia said, busying herself with looking around the store. “Don’t have my beer mug.”
Mac bought her a bag of piñon nuts instead, pressing her to try one in spite of her polite refusals. She ate a few, and she liked them.
“Are you sure these come from a pine tree?” she asked as he handed her a soft drink.
“I’m sure,” he told her, and he was standing so close now. She could feel his eyes on her. She worried the bag of piñon nuts to keep from having to look at him. A soft rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. She moved to look out the screen door. The sky was already growing darker, the brightness outside going to shades of gray.
“Going to rain again,” Mac said quietly just behind her. She could almost feel his breath ruffle her hair.
“I guess it’s a good thing Bobby got your cows out of the—” She couldn’t think of the word. If she leaned back she’d touch him.
“Arroyo,” Mac supplied for her, stepping aside when she turned around suddenly. She dared to raise her eyes, not expecting to find him looking at her. He was, and she forced her eyes away, staring at a counter of religious figurines as they stood together in the growing shadows inside the trading post.
“When… are you going back?” Mac asked, and Amelia glanced toward the store proprietor, a woman in a red wraparound skirt and a yellow T-shirt. The woman was apparently satisfied that she’d made all her sales, and she had gone back to reading a paperback novel behind the counter.
“Tomorrow night,” Amelia said. “I’m booked on the ten o’clock flight.”
Mac nodded, taking the bag of nuts out of her hand, plucking one out, then giving it back again. Their fingers brushed, and Amelia could feel his warm touch deep inside her, warmth unleashing warmth, hers from his.
She took a small breath, her lips parting with a not-quite sigh. His arm was only inches from hers. She could feel the heat from it. She knew she ought to move away from him, but she stood there as if she’d been nailed to the floor.
Amelia made herself look up at him. “Can you let me know if Bobby needs anything? I don’t imagine I’ll get back out here.”
Oh, Lord, she thought as she looked at him. What eyes. What beautiful, sad eyes.
“I’ll do that for you,” he answered, and she lowered her gaze to the hollow of his throat.
No turquoise beads, she thought crazily.
“Amelia?” Mac said, his gravelly voice soft, caressing her like a hand. Her knees were weak again, and it had nothing to do with the altitude. She was afraid to look up at him now. They were in the middle of a public place, and at that particular moment she wanted to touch him so badly she could hardly stand it.
“Amelia…” he said again, and she lifted her eyes to his.
Oh, Mac…
“Mac!” the proprietor called suddenly. “Pull that string there, will you?”
“Yeah, Dora,” Mac answered, stepping away to do it. The overhead bulb was dim and put everything around the edge of the room into deeper shadow. And the rain came again, a torrential downpour as before, with no warning droplets.
“Where you been lately anyway?” Dora asked. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”
“Yeah, it must be all of three days.” Mac laughed.
“That’s a while for you, cowboy,” Dora said. “This man is a tamale-eating fool,” she added to Amelia.
Amelia smiled and took the straight chair Mac was offering her. The moment had passed, and she was safe. And she sat there wishing she could feel a little happier about it. What was the matter with her? She had to get out of here. She exhaled sharply at the mental image of Mac and his cowboy friends—or even Marlene:
“Oh,” he’d say with that devilish grin of his, “Amelia wanted me to park my boots…” And it would be more the truth than not. She had to get out of here before she made a complete fool of herself.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but the sky was still gray.
“Come on,” Mac said. “Let’s go.”
“Now?” Amelia asked, knowing, despite her newness to the climate, that this wasn’t likely the end of the downpour.
“Yes, now. Let’s go.” He was frowning, annoyed at something for some reason, distant and bordering on rudeness. “Let’s go!” he said again before she could set the soft-drink can down.
“All right!” she snapped back at him, following along outside. The air was cold and still heavy with impending rain, and a group of children ran back and forth through the stream of water that poured off the trading-post roof.
“Hurry up!” he said impatiently, clearly terribly burdened with her attempt to resume her perch behind him on Willard. She had no low wall to stand on, and he abruptly took matters into his own hands, leaning down to grab her up off the ground and settling her roughly on his lap. He gave her no time to get situated, giving Willard a kick in the sides that startled him into a trot. She had nothing to cling to to stay upright, and her concern at having his hard thighs under hers was all entangled with her fear of falling off.
“What is the matter with you?” she cried, trying to turn around enough to see him.
“You know what’s the matter!”
“I do not!”
Mac jerked the reins in sharply, causing Willard to rear and prance. “Amelia, get down. I can handle myself, but I can’t handle you too. Now get down!”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what that means! You know damn good and well what you’re doing. You think I don’t know when a woman wants… attention?”
“Why you egotistical—!” She couldn’t think of a word bad enough to call him in her rage at hearing what she knew was the truth. “You think every woman you meet wants to go to bed with you!”
“No! Just you!”
She meant to hit him. Hard. But he caught her hand as she swung at him, keeping her wrist gently but firmly captured.
“Let me go, damn you! I want down!” she yelled at him, the objectives in their argument suddenly changing. She was still trying to hit him, and she was trying to get off his lap. She squirmed against him to get free. Willard was sidestepping, and Mac gave him a sharp verbal command to settle him down. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders to put her on the ground, but then he changed his mind in the middle of it. He brought her against him instead, his arms tightly around her, his face buried in her neck. The rain came down, cold and hard and wet, and Amelia returned the embrace, clinging desperately, catching his hat before it fell onto the muddy ground. He wanted her to look at him, but she wouldn’t do it.
“Amelia,” Mac said, his voice harsh. “You’re going to have to get down. I can’t stand any more—” He pushed himself back to see her face, his eyes searching hers.
“I’m not Marlene!” she said angrily, near tears and out of breath from her anger and from her desire and from the damned higher altitude.
He caught her face in his rough hands. “You think I don’t know that? My God! It’s been ten years, Amelia. Ten years—and you’ve cut off all your beautiful hai
r—and I still want you so bad I can’t stand it.” He leaned forward suddenly, his mouth brushing against hers, tentative and hungry, a hunger she returned in spite of herself. He hesitated a moment, looking into her eyes; then his mouth was on hers, open and hard. She clung to him with one hand while the other hand still held his hat, and she couldn’t keep back the low moan that escaped from deep in her throat. She loved the taste of him, just as she knew she would, loved the eager probing of his tongue into the deep recesses of her mouth. She was drunk with his clean, masculine smell. He moved her up higher on his lap, his hand sliding upward to find her breast.
Willard was sidestepping again, and Mac broke away, his breathing harsh and ragged against her face and neck. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his shoulder. His beard rasped against her forehead as he made her look at him.
“Amelia, don’t you understand? I want to take you somewhere. Right now.”
“Then take me,” she whispered, the rain beating down on them. She looked into his eyes so he’d know she meant it. It was too late for second thoughts now, too late to pretend she was offended.
He hesitated only a moment, pulling her around so that she was leaning against him, his fingers splayed so that she could feel his thumb between her breasts and his fingers over her ribs.
“Your hat!” she said as a sudden gust of wind jerked it from her hand.
“To hell with the hat,” he said, sending Willard forward, his breath warm against her cheek. They rode down the empty street, stopping finally at a gate in yet another rose-covered adobe wall.
“My mother’s house,” Mac said as he lifted her off the horse. He let her slide against him as he set her down. Amelia could feel him. He was so strong, so hard against her. Her heart pounded at the knowledge that she was the object of his desire. He led Willard into the walled yard, taking her by the hand to pull her along with him past the trees that dripped with rain. She watched him hungrily as he set Willard free to wander at will, feeling his fingers trembling slightly in hers when he took her hand again to lead her inside. She followed him blindly across the flagstone patio covered in pots of yucca and geranium, feeling him glancing at her, feeling him worry that she was about to change her mind.
Such Rough Splendor Page 7
