by Carol Grace
“Nothing, in theory. But I told you—”
She brushed past him and walked to the back door. “I know what you’re going to say. I don’t want to hear it again. Let’s drop it. We’re stuck here together for a few more hours. Then you can go back to banking and I can go back to farming.”
Josh felt as if she’d slapped him in the face. “I’m sorry I ruined your day. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”
“You can start a fire out back to barbecue the chicken. That way we won’t have to heat up the house.” She turned and went into the kitchen.
As he tossed branches of apple wood into a pile, he realized she didn’t bother to deny that he’d ruined her day. Well, she hadn’t done much to make his, either. Except for the lunch, and Jacinda had made that. Then there was the encounter under the mango tree, where he had almost lost his control and she had almost given in to the feelings she tried so hard to hide. Was this really a generic hatred of bankers as she claimed, or was it something else, something he couldn’t even guess at?
When she came outside again, the smoke was curling up from the fire. Expertly she threaded the chicken on the spit, and Josh turned the crank until his arm ached and his face was covered with soot. She set the table and brought out a pot of rice and a platter of homegrown tomatoes. Then she poked a fork into the chicken and nodded her approval.
After he washed up, they made polite, impersonal conversation while they ate. But when she wasn’t looking he allowed himself some very personal glances—at the neckline of her T-shirt and the line where her shorts met her thighs. As the shadows lengthened, he studied her profile and the way her hair brushed her cheek. When she got up to get the coffee, he realized he would never see her legs again or the freckles on her knees, because tomorrow she would be wearing her market clothes and that would be the end of it. Of everything.
No more would he make a fool of himself hanging around the Rodriguez Market, waiting to see if she’d appear. No more feeble attempts at bargaining. As she had said, she’d go back to farming and he’d go back to banking. Finally. This had been the longest and most frustrating day of his life. And it wasn’t over yet.
He stood and walked around the yard. It was almost dark. If it hadn’t been for the light from the fire, he wouldn’t have noticed the hammock swaying invitingly in the evening breeze. He leaned against the canvas. It was wide, big enough for two. Fat chance, he told himself. Catherine set two cups on the table and a pot of coffee.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she cautioned. “That’s where I sleep.”
He straightened. “Don’t worry. I’m just going to stretch out in the back seat of my car. Don’t forget to knock on my window in the morning so I won’t miss the truck.”
“That’s not necessary. You can have my bedroom upstairs. It ought to cool off pretty soon. That way I won’t have to knock on your window. You’ll hear the rooster crow.”
“If you’re sure...”
“I’m sure. I never use it in the summer.” She poured a cup of coffee and delivered it to him, determined to be hospitable to the end which, God willing, would be only a few more hours. Then Josh Bentley would disappear from her life. Hopefully an anonymous tow truck would come to get his car, then she would never have to see him again.
After he finished his coffee, she led him to the small bedroom furnished with only a narrow bed and a chest of drawers. She paused long enough to collect her nightgown from a hook on the wall and a blanket from the foot of the bed. In the dim gaslight on the wall the large outline of his body filled the doorway. She stood at the top of the stairs.
“Do you need anything else?” she asked politely.
There was a long silence while she felt rather than saw his eyes on her.
“Do you?”
She shook her head and hurried down to the kitchen where she changed into her nightgown in the dark. Did she need anything else? Good question. He made her want something else, she knew that, and wants were only a hairbreadth from needs. Needs that were as basic as food and water and just as primal. Her skin prickled as the soft cotton slid over her breasts.
Barefoot, she tiptoed out past the dying embers of the fire and lay down in the hammock, her blanket wrapped around her. As she watched, the gaslight in the upstairs window went out. She closed her eyes tightly and willed herself to go to sleep. But she thought of the man in her room, in her bed, and the thought disturbed her more than she imagined. The light in her bedroom went on again. Why didn’t he go to sleep? He said he’d been up since 5:00.
There was a thumping sound. The sound of someone coming down the stairs in the dark. Then kitchen sounds. Glass clinking against glass. What was he doing?
“Josh?”
He came to the back door. “I can’t sleep. It must be the coffee. I was looking for something to drink.” He lifted a glass.
“There’s fresh water in the icebox.”
He returned to the kitchen, then she saw the outline of his body as he stepped out into the yard, wearing his same clothes, but barefoot, too. He bent his head back and let out an appreciative whistle. “What a view of the southern sky. From my balcony in town it looks like soup.”
“Too much peripheral light,” she agreed.
“Hey, there’s the Southern Cross. I’ve been here for two weeks, and this is the first time I’ve seen it.”
Catherine stood and wrapped her blanket tightly around her instinctively. “Where is it? I’ve been here for eighteen months and I still haven’t found it.”
He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “That’s because it’s not really a cross. There’s no central star to mark the X. It looks more like a kite.”
She felt the warmth of his hands through her blanket as she tilted her head back. She told herself she could see the stars just as well from the comfort of her hammock, but for some reason she stayed right where she was, leaning back against his chest, listening to him point out the brilliant Jewelbox cluster and the dark nebula called Coalsack. His deep voice caused vibrations to echo through her body.
“I’ve always wanted to see Scorpio,” she said in a dreamy voice she scarcely recognized as hers. If he had let her go, she would have fallen over backward. But she knew he wouldn’t.
“Actually,” he said softly, his lips against her ear, “the hammock is a better place to watch the constellations.”
Scorpio flashed her a warning signal from four hundred light-years away.
“For you or for me?” she asked.
“It looks as if it’s big enough for two,” he suggested as they walked together toward the hammock.
She hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.” She looked up for a sign from Scorpio, but he seemed to be urging her on, asking her, “What harm would it do to study the sky for a few minutes?” Telling her it was a wide hammock, large enough for two.
But no matter how strong or how wide the hammock, when Josh settled down next to her, their bodies were pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. He crossed his arms under his head and continued his lecture, apparently unaware of the heat waves he was generating in her body. How could he know he had started a chain reaction a few weeks ago in the marketplace that grew stronger and harder to resist every time she saw him?
The sound of his voice describing the location of the South Pole soothed her, and the constellations blurred before her eyes. She turned onto her side, her back to him. He stopped talking and shifted so that they were back to back. She sighed. She should tell him to leave now and go back upstairs, but it was so hot up there and the air was cool out here. So deliciously cool. And it felt so good to lie there, her back against his. She opened her mouth to tell him... what was it she was going to tell him?
“Do you know what?” she whispered.
“No.”
“You paid too much for the mangoes.’’ There, she’d gotten it off her mind.
Just before she drifted off to sleep, she f
elt his hand tousle her hair. “I know,” he said, “but it was worth it.”
When the rooster crowed, Catherine sighed and buried her head in her blanket. It took a long moment before she realized she wasn’t alone. She lay perfectly still, afraid to turn and see if Josh was awake. Maybe if she rolled over the edge of the hammock and onto the ground, she could pretend she really hadn’t spent the night as close to Josh Bentley as a person could get. Well, almost as close.
But just as she moved her leg over the side, she felt him shift his weight and drop one arm over her shoulders. She twisted around to face him. In the darkness she saw that his eyes were closed. The shadow of a dark beard grazed his face. A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. He was breathing deeply. Still asleep.
She felt her muscles relax as she unconsciously matched his breathing with her own, mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest. What had happened to her plan to slip away? Maybe Jacinda had put something in the wine. Some herb, some magic potion to rob her of her self-control. She wouldn’t put it past her. Jacinda was determined to push her into someone’s arms. Not just someone’s—Josh’s.
Before she realized what was happening, Josh tightened his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him, the half smile deepening. Taking a deep breath, she slid out from under his arm and rolled out of the hammock. A low moan escaped his lips, and Catherine looked down at him, her blanket over her shoulders, her hands on her hips.
“It’s time to get up,” she said firmly, ignoring the sight of his broad chest as he stretched lazily.
He gave her a sleepy smile. “I was in the middle of a dream,” he protested.
“Sorry,” she said briskly. “No time for dreams. The truck will be here in a few minutes. And I know you’re anxious to get to town and get your... whatever it was.”
“My hose.” He sat on the edge of the hammock and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. His clothes were wrinkled, his face lined with sleep, and she realized that he was still the most attractive man she’d ever seen.
She turned quickly before she said something stupid. “I’m going up to change.”
He watched her go, long, slender legs, bare feet hitting the ground as if she were wearing boots. The remnants of the dream clouded his vision. He was holding her in his arms and swaying in a hammock on a tropical beach. The best part was that Catherine wasn’t a dream. If anything, she was more beautiful, more bewitching in real life. The worst part was that sleeping next to him had meant nothing to her. He could tell by the look on her face as she had stood there gazing down at him, announcing the arrival of the truck as if he were a passenger in a bus station.
The harsh beep of a horn broke his reverie. A diesel engine clattered in the distance. He walked across the yard and stood under her bedroom window. “Catherine.”
She leaned out the window, hair braided, shawl in place, and looked down at him.
“Are my shoes up there?” he asked.
Without speaking she threw them down one at a time, and he caught them in one swift motion. Then, very firmly and deliberately, she shut the window and was gone.
“Thanks,” he said loudly to the closed window. Then he washed his face in the kitchen sink, put his shoes on and stood in front of her house. The lights from the truck grew brighter as it came down the hill. At the edge of the road he glared at his useless car. “Traitor,” he said loudly. “Deserter. Where were you when I needed you?” Over the whine of the fast-approaching truck he didn’t hear her walk up behind him.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” she said. “You were saying?”
He turned to look at her. A glimmer of humor danced in her dark eyes. “It’s a well-known technique talking to cars,” he explained dryly. “They need encouragement just like people.”
“Well, that didn’t sound like encouragement to me”
“What this car needs is a kick in the tires,” he explained.
She opened her mouth to reply, but the breaks squealed and the truck pulled up in front of her house. He helped her load the baskets of raspberries into the long flatbed between bags of lettuce and mangoes. The farm women he had met yesterday welcomed him with shrieks of surprise, made room for him in the corner next to Catherine and erupted into a stream of gossip in their Indian language.
He gave Catherine an inquiring look. She smiled at him for the first time since yesterday when he arrived. And with the smile came the first streaks of light across the sky. A new day, filled with new possibilities. With Catherine Logan? Probably not. Probably he’d never see her again. A garage would send a tow truck or a man with the parts. He would never go to the Rodriguez Market again. He would buy his groceries at the supermarket in town. She didn’t want to see him. He didn’t want to see her. But there was that smile, and the eyes and that look she had that was half farmer’s daughter and half exotic gypsy.
“What are they talking about?” he asked.
There was a glint in her eyes. “You and me. They want to know what happened last night. They’re very curious, you know.”
“Did you tell them?”
“There’s nothing to tell. We had dinner, went to bed, got up and that’s it.” She twisted the fringe on her shawl and avoided his gaze.
“You forgot the astronomy lecture.” He slanted her a look, hoping for some reaction, anything. She didn’t disappoint him.
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you even hint that we slept together in the hammock. That’s the kind of thing that’s cause for a shotgun wedding. They don’t understand casual... informal...” She faltered. “They wouldn’t understand. Trust me.”
He reached for her hand and shook it firmly. “I’ll trust you if you’ll trust me. Now just let me explain the whole thing.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hand. “Give me a chance,” he said, and she pressed her lips together.
He turned to Doña Jacinda. “My car,” he began in halting Spanish, “has a problem.”
Jacinda threw back her head and laughed loudly. Unperturbed, he continued. “Catalina was kind enough to offer me shelter for the night.” At this the whole truckload of women shouted their approval. Catherine’s face turned red, and she pulled the brim of her bowler hat down over her eyes.
“What happened?” Josh asked. “I know my Spanish isn’t very good, but what did I say?”
She shook her head helplessly. “It doesn’t matter what you said. They think they know what happened. Anyway, you’ve made their day.”
He looked around at their smiling faces, listened to their chatter without understanding one word, then leaned against a sack of peppers. “How often do you do this?”
She tilted her head back, feeling the heat recede from her cheeks at last, grateful for the change of subject. “Twice a week during harvest. We’re better off than most of the women you see in the market. We grow our own crops so we keep our own profits. Or we would if...” She paused and looked at the driver.
“If you didn’t have to pay the driver. If you had your own truck,” he finished for her.
“You said it, I didn’t.” She gave him a long look. “For every head of lettuce, every mango, every bunch of parsley we sell, he gets half the profits.” She tied her shawl in a knot under her chin, choking back her resentment.
“How much does he charge?” Josh asked with a troubled frown.
“It’s not what he charges. It’s the interest. We don’t have the cash to pay him in the morning, and by evening the interest has risen by fifty percent.”
His dark eyebrows drew together. “That sounds like usury.”
“Of course, but we have no choice. We just hope to break even. They think that’s the way it has to be, but I know better. I know you go to the bank in the spring for seed money and in the fall you pay it back.” The picture of stern old Mr. Grant floated before her eyes and she paused. “Theoretically,” she added.
“You do know what happens if you can’t make the payments,” he said soberly.
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“Of course I know. I’ve seen farms sold and I’ve seen divorces and suicides. But we’re not talking about mortgaging the farm here. We’re talking about a truck, one truck, even one used truck in good shape.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t talk about it anymore.”
The wooden slats that held the produce rattled as the truck rounded a curve, and Catherine fell against Josh’s shoulder. She tried to move back to her place, but he put his arm around her waist under her shawl and held her tightly.
“It still hurts to think about your farm, doesn’t it?” he asked, his lips against her ear.
“Yes.” She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to think about it, but sometimes it came back to her like a bad dream. Not as often as before, though. These past eighteen months had been good for her. As long as she stayed far away from Tranquility, California, and the States, she could keep the bad dreams at bay.
“Are you sure you want to take a chance again with a loan, with a bank and with a banker?”
She looked around the truck at the women, at their round, honest faces, weathered by the sun, lined with hard work. “Yes, it’s worth it. If you never take chances, you’re stuck in a rut. If they had a loan...” She bit her lip, determined never to mention it again. She leaned back and closed her eyes, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid to hear him say no again.
Josh stretched his arms along the top of the wooden slats. Taking chances was what bank loans were all about. He’d been a loan officer once. On his way to becoming a vice president. Minimizing risks was the name of the game, and this was a risk that had No written all over it. He reminded himself of the balance of payments, of rising inflation, and all he could think about was the woman next to him, the scent of her hair, the way her body felt pressed next to his and the swaying motion lulling her to sleep.
