Love's Haven

by Catherine Palmer

“I’m married to him,” she said. “Brock Barnett.”

  Sherry set the plate on the rolling tray and perched on the edge of Mara’s bed. Her dark brown eyes sparkled as she waved a hand in dismissal. “Not that I would know—since I’ve never strapped the bonds of matrimony and motherhood around my own neck—but I’d guess it’s just your hormones talking, Mara. You’ve heard about the baby blues? You know, post-partum depression? They say you feel sad for no reason at all.”

  “No reason! Sherry, I’m a widow who married a man I don’t even like.”

  “You like Brock.”

  “How could I? Thanks to him, I don’t have a husband.”

  “Brock is your husband,” Sherry countered firmly, “and you do like him. When Todd was alive, you got along with Brock.”

  “I tolerated him. He’s so self-assured and smug. Like he’s king of the world. Strutting around in those jeans and boots. Driving a fancy car. Trying to buy off his guilt. I don’t know…he’s just so cocky.”

  “Who wouldn’t be? Brock Barnett is rich and handsome and educated and successful—”

  “Please, Sherry!” Mara groaned. “Spare me the buildup. He’s been so unbearably nice these past few days. It’s almost sickening. He packed all my stuff and moved me out of the apartment. He brought over lotion and shampoo and a new box of talcum powder. Expensive, designer-brand talcum powder, Sherry. He’s bought Abby everything from diapers to booties to a velvet Christmas dress she’ll probably be too big to wear by December. This morning it hit me that I was actually looking forward to seeing him walk through the door. You’re right. I don’t hate him as much as I should. And I hate myself for that.”

  “Let it go, Mara.”

  “I’m trying. But when I look into Abby’s eyes, all I can think about is Todd. He was so excited about the pregnancy. He couldn’t wait to be a father. He talked about holding her and teaching her things, you know? Three months of my morning sickness…that’s all he got.”

  Sherry pulled a tissue from the box by Mara’s bed. “Here you go. You can’t wish this sadness away, so you might as well feel it. I think it’s part of grieving for Todd.”

  “It is, but I can’t forgive Brock for what he did, even though I know I should. I’ve heard countless sermons on the topic, and I never thought it was that difficult. If we want God’s forgiveness, we’re supposed to forgive others. But this is so different…so hard. I’m not even sure I know how to forgive Brock, Sherry. Besides, I can’t let go of Todd. Not now.”

  “Abby is Todd’s daughter, Mara. Of course you can’t let his memory go. You never will, and you never should.” She paused a moment. “But you’re right about Brock. You do need to forgive him.”

  Mara stared at the door through which Brock had come and gone at least twenty times since Abby’s birth. Half the time, he was wheeling the baby into the room in her bassinet. He rarely stayed while Mara nursed, and they barely spoke to each other. When they did talk, they discussed only the most mundane, factual matters. But he was there, consistently there, as though he belonged.

  “If I shouldn’t let go of Todd,” Mara said, fingering the ring on her hand, “and if he’ll always be Abby’s father, how can I forgive myself for marrying Brock Barnett?”

  “Because you know why you did it.”

  “I don’t want to live in his house, Sherry.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” Mara conjured the image that had been bothering her all morning—Brock at the breakfast table, freshly showered and dressed in a denim shirt and jeans. She could almost smell his aftershave. “Because I don’t want to see him.”

  “You won’t see him. He’s a rancher. He’ll be out feeding cows or whatever. You know, up at sunrise and to bed at dusk. Besides, you’ll be busy taking care of Abby.”

  Mara pondered this for a moment. Sherry was probably right. Todd had told her Brock’s home was a sprawling adobe ranch house with two separate wings and a courtyard in between. She and Brock probably could live side by side without ever setting eyes on each other. Just as well.

  “I can’t believe I’m going to add an annulment or a divorce to my résumé,” she said with a long sigh. “Married, widowed, married, divorced. Good grief. How long do you suppose Brock will want to stay married?”

  “Given what you’ve told me about his track record with women, what do you think? I imagine he’ll decide he’s had enough domesticity after a month or two, and he’ll want to go back to having fun.” Sherry shook her head. “Please don’t worry so much about it. The Bible allows divorce.”

  “Because of the hardness of our hearts. That’s what Jesus said about it. I don’t want to become a hard-hearted, unforgiving, bitter woman, Sherry. What am I doing?”

  “Just relax. You’re in God’s hands.”

  “This can’t be part of His plan for me. I asked Him for help—not for Brock Barnett!”

  “Well, he’s who you got. Just make sure Brock signs everything, so your baby is legally protected the way he promised.”

  “He brought the papers in and showed them to me yesterday. Things couldn’t be better for Abby.”

  Mara tried to project the future Sherry had outlined. She and Abby would live alone in the big house until Brock’s hormones came calling. Then they would move out, the marriage would be annulled and Mara would fend for herself, as she had before and could again.

  “Brock married you out of a sense of obligation, Mara,” Sherry reminded her. “He feels it’s his duty to keep Todd’s daughter out of the welfare system. He knows he was responsible for Todd up on those cliffs at Hueco Tanks, and now he’s responsible for you two.”

  “He thinks he can buy my forgiveness. And God’s.”

  “Why not? He can buy everything else. Brock Barnett’s wayward soul is not your responsibility right now, Mara. The only thing you need to be thinking about is Abby. Brock can take care of himself. As soon as he’s figured out a way to settle you and Abby into some other satisfactory situation, you’ll be able to walk away. In the meantime, why not take advantage of his remorse?”

  “Oh, Sherry!” Mara had to laugh at her friend’s cynicism. “I’m not as mercenary as you.”

  Sherry shrugged. “Maybe not, but a big house, two maids, a swimming pool and a car of your own are nothing to sneeze at. You’re getting a cushy ride on ol’ Brocko’s guilt trip.”

  Mara touched the white silk bow on her new nightgown. At the time Brock had given it to her, she had sensed a genuine generosity in his eyes. He had carried the pink-papered box into her room early on the morning after Abby’s birth. After laying it on Mara’s bed, he had waited in silence for her to open it.

  “It’s got hidden slits in the front,” he had explained as she drew the satiny garment from the tissue paper. Then he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, and Mara would have sworn he blushed. “Well, it’s a special nursing gown, so you can feed Abby in it. The lady at the store told me it was just the thing.”

  Mara had softened at the thought of the tough cattle rancher searching for just the right kind of gown. Now, she wondered if the gift had been merely another token to ease Brock’s guilty conscience.

  “I imagine he’ll start to resent the situation after a while,” she said. “Abby and me living in his house and all.”

  “As I keep saying, Mara, so what? Let him resent it. He offered to do this, and now he can just deal with it.”

  Mara knew Sherry was trying to comfort her, but somehow she felt worse than ever. Could she live with a man who resented the very sight of her? Could she live with a man she could never forgive? Did she have any choice?

  Only the appearance of a nurse wheeling Abby’s bassinet through the door lifted Mara’s spirits. As the woman stopped the plastic-sided cart next to the bed, Sherry pulled back the edge of the blanket that covered Abby’s face.

  “Oh, Mara, I’ve never been the mommy type, but she’s precious.”

  “She certainly is,” the nurse concurred. “And she’s a pre
tty good little sleeper, too.”

  As Mara read out the code on her wrist bracelet, the nurse checked the matching codes on Abby’s arm and ankle tags. Then she lifted the baby out of the bassinet and laid her in Mara’s arms.

  “This child is all that matters,” Sherry said softly. “Focus on her, Mara. Abby is all you need to be thinking about.”

  Mara gazed down at the tiny pink face and tried to make herself believe Sherry was right.

  “Your rooms are in the west wing,” Brock said as he drove Mara and Abby across the metal cattle guard between the highway and the dirt road that led to his house. Though only fifteen miles outside the city limits of Las Cruces, the ranch felt to Mara as though it was light years away.

  “The courtyard is right outside the door to your suite,” Brock said. “It’s a good place to watch the sun go down.”

  Mara studied the man beside her. His tan Stetson shaded his eyes from the late-afternoon light that gilded his straight nose and firm, unsmiling mouth. These were the first words he had spoken since they left the hospital, and she wondered if Sherry’s prediction had come true already. He certainly didn’t seem thrilled to be transporting Mara and her baby to his house.

  So what? Mara told herself, repeating Sherry’s refrain. She didn’t have to please Brock Barnett. All that mattered was Abby. She glanced behind her at the infant carrier strapped into the back seat of the car. The sleek purr of Brock’s Jaguar had lulled the baby to sleep the moment they started on their way.

  Abby and her needs. The baby was all that mattered in Mara’s life.

  “Is there a place at the house for Abby to sleep?” she asked. “The cradle…it isn’t…well, Todd didn’t finish it.”

  Brock worked the gears of his bronze Jag with a leather-gloved hand. “I bought a crib.”

  “You did?” She couldn’t hide her surprise.

  “There’s a swing, too. It winds up. And one of those molded bathtubs. Yellow, I think.”

  “Oh.” Mara tried to picture Brock walking through a department store selecting baby furniture.

  “I reckon Abby won’t need a high chair for a few months yet, but I got her one of those, too.”

  Mara stared at the endless barbed-wire fencing that slipped past her window. A high chair meant Brock expected to have Abby around when she was big enough to need one. Maybe he really did intend to continue the arrangement, at least for a while. Did she want it to last beyond the time it took to get back on her feet? Could she handle being there with him for one day, let alone weeks or months?

  She allowed herself another look at the man. Dressed in a chamois-colored shirt that clung to his shoulders, a pair of faded jeans and the low-heeled brown leather boots New Mexicans called ropers, Brock scanned the terrain. He was tall, lean, fit and suntanned, and his black hair curled just a little beneath his hat. Again, Mara recalled the time Todd had introduced his best friend to her at an art gallery, and the way Brock’s deep voice had slid into the pit of her stomach. He truly was a sight that would stir any woman’s soul. Any woman but this new, utterly maternal Mara.

  She turned back to the window. Truth be known, she felt more like a punching bag than a woman. She had been poked, prodded and stitched until her whole body ached. Worse, she had been forced to admit her figure was a long way from its former shape. A long, long way.

  No man was likely to take a second glance at Mara—not that she wanted anyone to. But she had been appalled to discover that her stomach was almost exactly the size it had been before she gave birth. Only it was no longer hard and sleek with its cargo of baby. No, this stomach sagged like an old, half-full laundry bag. She had been assured she would firm up quickly, but she felt repulsive.

  “It’s too cold for the pool these days,” Brock remarked. “But you can use the hot tub in your wing. Might help with those stitches.”

  Mara suddenly flushed. For the first time since Abby was born, she flashed on the moment of birth. Brock had been watching, hadn’t he? He’d seen her body—seen the doctor cut her, seen how she was formed and shaped. He had seen her at her most raw and elemental moment.

  She leaned her cheek on the cool window and shut her eyes in embarrassment. So what? Sherry would say. So what if he saw you, and so what if you look like the Saggy Baggy Elephant?

  “Come summer, the pool is nice,” Brock said. “I swim laps, myself. You swim, Mara?”

  She nodded, at that moment resolving she would not be caught dead in a bathing suit—ever.

  “Abby might like the water, if we watch her close,” he continued. “I learned to swim when I was just a pup. Rode horses, too, but Abby won’t be ready for that for a few years. Still, it never hurts to start kids out young. I was roping by the time I was nine or ten.”

  Mara forced herself to listen. Again, Brock was talking about the distant future—and Abby was part of his plan. She needed to focus on the present situation and turn off the inward microscope. It was just the baby blues again, she told herself. She had never been one to allow negative thoughts to rule her life, and she wouldn’t start now.

  Recalling her conversation with Sherry, Mara thought about how forgiveness had seemed a fairly simple act—until Todd’s death. But she had to try. Even if it didn’t do a thing for Brock, it would help her heal from the terrible loss of her husband. As she breathed up a prayer for help, she decided that if Brock wanted to chat as they drove the long road up to his house, she would join in the conversation. The least they could do was be civil to each other.

  “Who taught you to swim?” she asked, seizing on the first thing that came to mind.

  She saw his jaw tighten. After a long pause, he spoke two words. “My mother.”

  Mara let out a breath. Great. She had put her foot in her mouth on the first try. Todd had told her Brock’s parents had divorced when he was ten years old. His mother had moved to the East Coast, and now she was living somewhere in South America. Brock had grown up with his father—a man too busy with his oil business to pay much attention to his son. Todd’s happy childhood stood out in stark contrast to that of his best friend.

  “I learned how to swim at the city pool,” Mara tried again. “There was a special program. We swam and did crafts, that kind of thing. It was fun.”

  From under the brim of his hat, Brock gave Mara a skeptical glance. Though they hadn’t been close, Mara realized that each knew about the other’s past. No doubt Todd had told his best friend how chaotic Mara’s childhood had been. Fun was rarely part of the picture.

  “Ever ride a horse?” he asked as he swung the Jaguar onto the gravel driveway of his house.

  “Never.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I don’t think so.” Mara leaned forward, trying to keep her mouth from dropping open at the sight of the massive adobe home looming before them. “I don’t know the first thing about horses.”

  “You’ll learn, once you’ve been here a while. I’ll take you out one of these days when you’re feeling better. Nothing like a good long ride to take your mind off things.”

  He pulled the car around to the side of the house and pressed the button that lifted the first door of his three-car garage. As the vehicle slowed and came to a stop, Abby woke with a start. The baby began to whimper, and Mara unlatched her seat belt.

  “Oh, you’re awake,” she cooed as she leaned between the seats. “It’s okay, Abby. Mommy’s here.”

  As Brock switched off the engine, Mara climbed out of the car. She unfastened the baby and lifted her from the carrier. “She’s probably hungry.”

  “Yeah.” He was standing nearby as she straightened. “Listen, Mara. About Abby’s birth…I didn’t plan on being in there, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “The nurse just—”

  “Thank you. I mean, I’m glad. You helped.”

  “It was an amazing experience. Wonderful. But you don’t need to worry. I won’t intrude again.”

  “Oh, good.” The words were out before she had time
to retract them. “You’ve been great, Brock. Really. Todd would appreciate it.”

  Todd, she thought. You appreciate this, Mara. Words seemed to whisper in her heart. Tell him. Tell him how thankful you are. Forgive him, Mara. Set him free.

  “I think Abby’s hungry,” she said. She gave him a quick shrug and then turned away.

  Chapter Six

  “I’m Rosa Maria Hernandez, and this is Ermaline Criddle, and, oh, my goodness! Would you look at this baby? How darling! How beautiful! ¡Que linda!”

  Brock stood beside Mara in the grand foyer as his housekeeper and her assistant pressed close for a better look at the household’s newest member. Rosa Maria, a small, round woman with bright black eyes and black curly hair, fairly bubbled with joy as she oohed and aahed over Abby.

  Beside her, Ermaline gushed with equal ardor. She was tall, almost gaunt, and she looked as though she hadn’t eaten in a week. Her teeth were two sizes too big for her mouth, but Brock had always thought her face was genuine and kind.

  “She’s a doll,” Ermaline said. “Three days old? I tell you what, me and Frank, that’s my husband, we’ve got four kids. Every one of them’s been three days old, too, but I’d swear I can’t remember them ever being this small.”

  “They grow so fast!” Rosa Maria tapped Abby’s cheek. “So fast! One day you can hold them in your arms, the next day they’re getting a driver’s license. Oh, my goodness, you better enjoy this one, Mrs…. um…”

  “Mrs. Barnett,” Brock said as he set Mara’s suitcase on the floor.

  “You can call me Mara. Really, that’s…that’s fine.”

  “Mrs. Barnett,” Brock repeated. “We try to keep things a little formal around here.”

  Mara hugged Abby tightly as though she was almost frightened by the reality of his world—a world that now had become her own.

  “You have two housekeepers?” she asked as the women hurried away. Ermaline vanished down a hall, and Rosa Maria went back to polishing the mirror in the foyer.

  “The house is huge.” Brock looked around him as he stated the obvious. Her awe wasn’t lost on him, and he felt a surge of pride at all he had accomplished in the past few years.