She walked toward the house.
“Amelia?” Mac called when she’d gone a short way.
“What, Mac?” she answered, steeling herself to turn and look at him. It was all she could do not to go to him, not bury her face in that hard chest and ask him to hold her just for a little while.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night, Mac,” she told him, her voice low and husky from trying not to cry. She walked on toward the house, head down, thinking how unfair she’d been to let him take the blame for everything. It was me. It wasn’t him. I wanted him. I still do.
She went on into the house, hoping to find Bobby there. He was, but he was deep in conversation with the girl in the red and black shirt, and Amelia didn’t intrude. She went back outside instead, running into Rita on the back steps.
“Come with me,” Rita said, looking at her hard.
“Why?” Amelia asked as Rita took her by the arm.
“Because you look like you’re about to bawl, and there ain’t no place in the house to do it,” Rita said matter-of-factly. “Come on with me. Let’s you and me talk.” Rita led the way past the spit toward an outdoor fireplace that was located behind it.
“I don’t feel much like talking, Rita.”
“Well, there’s talking and there’s talking,” Rita said, pulling around two wooden yard chairs for them to sit in. The fire in the stone fireplace blazed brightly, giving off a pleasant pine smell. Amelia took the chair Rita offered, savoring the warmth her legs received from the burning pine and trying not to shiver from the cold night breeze on her back. She drew her feet up into the chair, hugging her knees, her face pressed into Mac’s jacket. It smelted of him. She inhaled deeply, loving the scent, her body eager to respond to the memory it evoked. She glanced up at the stars in the black sky overhead, then toward the corral. Mac wasn’t there anymore.
“Rita,” she said finally, “have you ever wanted to run in place and scream?”
Rita smiled. “Lots of times. Feeling that way, are you?”
Amelia nodded. “I’m sorry I hurt Pop’s feelings.”
“It’s all right, honey. I told him how it is when you’re by yourself—or I told him how it was with me anyway. You got nobody you can depend on but yourself, and you get to the place where you can’t lean on nobody else even if you want to.”
Amelia sighed. “That’s it. Exactly.” She put her head on her knees again for a moment, realizing that this was just the kind of “talking” she needed. The activity of the barbecue still went on behind them—music and voices and laughter—but it didn’t really penetrate.
“You ever been jealous, Amelia?” Rita asked eventually. “I mean really cat-eyed-green jealous.”
“Mmm,” Amelia said. “Daniel replaced me with a twenty-one-year-old-child. You might say I was jealous.” She didn’t mention the feeling she’d had at seeing Marlene put her hand on Mac’s arm.
Rita shifted in her chair a little. “Now, Pop,” she said, frowning as she tried to say it just right, “Pop is a kind man, but he forgets how jealous I get of Louise.”
“Louise?”
“Mac’s mother. I guess you never met her. She was an artist. A good one. She’s got that little house down in Chimayo and her truck—Amelia, the woman’s been dead for twelve years!”
“Her truck?” Amelia asked, puzzled.
“Oh,” Rita said airily, “that old ‘53 Chevrolet truck. It’s one of those kind with a wooden frame built over the truck bed—like grocery stores used to use. It’s got a roof and canvas you can roll down on the sides to keep the rain out.”
“Oh, yes.” Amelia smiled. “I remember. Dark blue.”
“No, that’s the other color. This one is dark green. Anyway, Pop won it in a raffle at the rodeo—first big present he was ever able to give Louise, because he never had that much money all at one time. He loved that truck—got to the point that Louise decided he loved it more than he loved her. You know what he did? He took it up to Taos and let some artist paint her name—Louise—all fancy on the side. Just to pick at her, you know? Then when he came right out and said he loved ‘Louise’ best, she wouldn’t know which one he meant.”
Amelia smiled at the story.
“Yeah, but he’s still got the darned thing,” Rita said, making her point. “Just like new—except the gas gauge don’t work. It’s got a new motor and new tires—new ugly green paint. Look at me—jealous of a dead woman! God, I hate that truck!”
They stared at each other, then burst out laughing. Amelia felt infinitely better suddenly, not nearly so troubled and intense.
“Rita, thanks,” she said, reaching out to touch the older woman’s hand.
Rita grinned back at her. “For what?”
“Oh, for having Bobby and me here and for not treating us like guests. You treat us like family. I—I feel like family. It’s been a long time since I had that, and I’ve missed it.”
“Amelia, bless your heart, you’re welcome. Now. You’re tired. Let me see if I can clear some folks out so you can go on to bed.”
“I need to talk to Pop first,” Amelia said as she got up. She glanced toward the group of men gathered on the porch, the red glow of cigarettes and cigars sprinkled among them.
“He’s in that bunch swapping horse-trainer stories,” Rita said.
They walked together toward the house, Amelia dreading her apology to Mac’s father. But he saw her coming across the yard with Rita, and he walked out to meet them, not giving Amelia a chance to say what she’d planned.
“No, no, darlin’, you know what’s best for you. I want you to know that we want you here, but don’t you let us make things worse for you. Can’t nobody be a judge of that but you. I already talked to Bobby a little bit. He knows you’ll stay if you can.”
“Thank you, Pop,” Amelia said, fighting a new urge to cry.
Pop patted her on the cheek, and she turned to follow Rita inside, calling her own strained “Good night” in response to the chorus of “Good night, Miss Amelia” that came from Pop’s cronies on the porch.
Rita led her to a small neat room that had its own bathroom and an outside door to a flagstone patio. Her suitcase sat near the foot of the bed. Mac’s room, she thought immediately, because of the tailored masculine look and the shelves of 1960s Junior Rodeo trophies and ribbons. The bed was made with blankets and no bedspread in a tight, almost military look.
“Sleep as late as you want,” Rita said in parting. “And don’t worry about Bobby. I’ll find him and tell him you’ve gone to bed.”
Amelia sat down on the edge of Mac’s narrow bed, still wearing his jacket and still trying not to cry. She wanted to stay here with the McDades for a while. And she wanted—Lord, she didn’t know what she wanted, except that she didn’t want another man to use her the way Daniel had. Mac had promised to keep his distance, but would she let him? They were just too different, she and Mac McDade. They drove each other crazy.
I wanted you, he said. I always have.
The smell of him was on her clothes and her body. She removed the clothes after a time—his clothes—but she didn’t shower, pulling on a long T-shirt-type nightgown instead because she couldn’t bear to wash his scent away.
Then she lay in the darkness and quietly wept so no one would hear her, pulling the covers tightly around her and trying to find some comfort in Mac’s bed. Someone laughed in the yard near her window.
“Where did Mac go?” a man’s voice said.
“He’s flying Marlene to Gallup tonight,” Pop answered.
The man laughed again. “I swear—that boy of yours. You reckon he can handle that plane and Marlene? Damned if I’d try!”
Amelia could hear the laughter of other men on the porch as the tears poured out the corners of her eyes and trickled into her ears.
“Well, Amelia,” she whispered, struggling not to cry, “welcome to the world of the modern single woman.”
CHAPTER SIX
AMELIA WOKE AT se
ven o’clock—Eastern time. The house was completely silent, and when she could lie in Mac’s bed no longer she got up and quietly showered, then dressed in a pair of white cotton slacks and a navy-blue T-shirt. The morning was cool—cold to her—and she slipped on Mac’s denim jacket, again savoring his masculine scent in the cloth. She stood in the small bathroom, staring into the mirror and trying to decide what to do with her sleep-starved face. She had cried a long time, and it showed. She finally put on some lip gloss, and then some gray eyeshadow, impulsively following that with mascara and some blusher—all the while berating herself because she was doing it for Houston McDade, and she knew it. She took one last look in the mirror and sighed. She still looked as if she’d spent most of the night crying.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee came from the kitchen, and Mac was sitting by himself in a straight chair in front of one of the large windows that reached nearly ceiling to floor. Amelia bent down to retie one of her running shoes, not seeing him until she straightened up again.
“You’re up early,” she said in what she hoped was a neutral voice. Her heart was pounding at the sight of him, her entire body sensitized to his presence in the room. She should have been upset that he went off with Marlene after all, but in actuality she was—she was happy. He was here now, and nothing else mattered to her.
“Haven’t been to bed,” Mac answered, his voice distant and preoccupied. His feet were propped on the low win-dowsill, his white socks drooping over the ends of his toes, and his boots were carelessly dumped near his chair, one standing upright, one toppled over onto the tile floor.
Amelia hesitated, pushing up the sleeves of his denim jacket so she could take down a coffee cup from one of the sculpted shelves over the kitchen counter. She filled it half full of coffee, then walked to the refrigerator, careful not to spill the coffee or to look at Mac.
“What are you hunting for?” he asked.
“Milk,” she answered, still not looking at him. His hair was mussed, the sprigs of crisp, dark hair all askew and making him look absolutely adorable. Amelia forced herself not to think of Marlene and how his hair could have come to look that way.
“Are you going to drink that?” he asked as she poured her half cup of coffee full of milk.
“Not until I find some sugar,” she said, and he watched as her sacrilege continued. She found Rita’s copper sugar bowl in a stuccoed niche near a large fern that sat on the end of the kitchen counter. She stirred two heaping tea-spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee. “Maybe you shouldn’t watch,” she suggested at the look on his face.
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” he agreed as she took a sip.
“So,” she said after a time, determined to keep up the sophisticated front if it killed her. “How did your trip with Marlene go?”
See? she told him silently. It’s nothing to me.
Mac looked into her eyes, holding her gaze until she had to look elsewhere. She took another sip of her neutralized coffee and saw that the sky through the window behind him was beginning to take on a pale, rosy glow.
“Fine,” Mac said. “I got what I wanted.”
He was watching her closely, and she set the coffee cup down on the counter, her fingers trailing over the pattern on the side—stylized flowers in red and yellow and blue.
“Of course,” she said quietly, and he gave a small laugh.
“What does that mean—’of course’?”
Amelia made herself look at him, made herself hold his frank steady gaze. She could hear the beginnings of bird-songs from outside, none of which she recognized. There was not a mourning dove among them. A fresh, cool breeze blew in through the screen door, causing the wind chimes to tinkle softly. She shrugged. “It means—of course.”
“Who told you I went to Gallup with Marlene?”
“No one,” she said truthfully.
“You’ve just got big ears.” He wasn’t smiling, but Amelia could feel his amusement. She should never have started this conversation.
“Where is everybody?” she asked to change the subject. “Where’s Bobby?”
“Gone trout fishing.”
“Everybody?” she asked, regretting it instantly, knowing that with that one word she’d let him see how much it bothered her that they were alone in the house together.
Mac gave a tired sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that, Amelia.”
“Like what?” she said, and again she could have kicked herself. He would tell her, and she’d have to deny it, and they’d be all at odds again.
“Like you think I’m going to jump on your bones the first chance I get. I’m not. I told you you could stay here and not worry about me. To tell you the truth, Amelia, I really don’t have to hang around where I’m not wanted. By the way, I brought you a present.”
Amelia stared at him, completely at a loss for words. He’d just accused her of having some kind of ravishment phobia, and now he was suddenly offering her a present. She looked at him closely to see if this was something like the phantom dog again—and she couldn’t tell. “Why would you bring me a present?” she said suspiciously and with a finely honed rudeness that would have caused her Taylor forebears to swoon.
Mac was trying not to smile. “Because I wanted to.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows once. And he was wearing that same look, she decided—the one that meant he was making fun of her ignorance. “It’s in that little paper bag behind you.”
She looked behind her, still suspicious. A crisp brown paper bag sat on the counter next to a basket of oranges.
“What is it?” she asked, and she changed her mind about his facial expression. It was more like the one he’d had just prior to the impromptu, middle-of-nowhere plane landing.
“I told you,” he said, trying hard not to smile. “It’s a gift.”
She picked up the bag. Something rolled around inside it.
“It’s a present, Amelia. You open the bag. You look inside. You say, ‘Just what I wanted,’ no matter what it is, and then you say, ‘Thank you, Mac, that was really classy of you—and thoughtful. Tasteful,’ you might say, ‘without being gauche.’”
Amelia couldn’t keep from grinning.
“You open the bag,” he repeated.
She fingered the fold at the top. “I’m afraid to,” she said abruptly, holding the bag inside.
“Why?”
“Because I remember all those things you and Bobby did to each other when you were in the hospital—and to me, that’s why. If this is some kind of creature—one of those vinegarroon things you told me about yesterday on the flora-and-fauna tour into Chimayo…”
“Amelia, you’re going to feel pretty silly when you open that. It’s not a creature. Why do you think I’d give you a scorpion?”
“Because we aren’t getting along.”
“Yeah, and whose fault is that?”
“Not mine,” she assured him, frowning at the bag.
“The hell it’s not,” he said mildly. “Open the bag!”
“All right!” she said, her curiosity getting the better of her. She looked into the bag.
“Pretty nice, huh?” he asked, trying to do something with his grin.
Amelia smiled at him, then stuck her hand into the bag to remove his gift—a single Hershey’s kiss. One.
“One is all I get?” she asked, holding it in her palm.
“Yes, one is all you get, you ungrateful woman. Is that what you’d say if it were a mink stole? It’s the thought that counts, Amelia. Try to remember that.”
She laughed. “You’re absolutely right. Thank you for my most favorite thing in the whole world. What’s the catch?”
“Amelia!” he said, clearly shocked. “You like it, right?”
“I like it,” she agreed, trying to get her one piece of chocolate out of the foil wrapping.
“That’s what I thought. I said to myself, if chocolate ever becomes a controlled substance, my friend Amelia is in big trouble. So have that one to tide you over. And see how
I didn’t wreck your diet or anything?”
“Yes, I appreciate that,” she said, removing the last bit of foil.
“Aren’t you going to share?” he asked hopefully just as she was about to pop it into her mouth.
“No way,” she said around the chocolate, and he laughed.
“I figured that was the only kind of kiss you’d let me give you,” he said, staring into her eyes. “But if you were so happy with that chocolate you wanted to thank me in a special way—”
He broke off abruptly at the sound of a child crying in one of the bedrooms. They weren’t alone after all.
“Somebody I want you to meet,” he said, leaving her in the kitchen. When he returned he was carrying a little boy who clung to his neck with both arms.
“Do you know who this lady is?” Mac asked the child.
“No,” the little boy said, peeping at Amelia from the security of Mac’s arms. His voice was tearful and hoarse, and he was wearing a too-big white I LOVE NEW MEXICO T-shirt. Amelia guessed his age to be about three, and he was the image of Mac.
“Guess,” Mac told him, kissing his forehead. “Who do you think this lady is?”
The little boy raised his head to look at her through teary eyes. “Is it Sissy?” he asked, his bottom lip trembling.
“That’s right!” Mac praised him, and Amelia looked at him in surprise. No one but Bobby had ever called her that, and he hadn’t done it since they were children.
“We know Bobby,” Mac explained over the little boy’s head. “He tells us ‘Sissy’ stories. Our favorite one is about Sissy in the outhouse when the roof blew off.”
Amelia laughed. “If I’d known Bobby was running around telling things like that, I would have stayed in Tennessee.”
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