Love's Haven

by Catherine Palmer

  His lifestyle had reflected that. He worked as a grocery stocker, went to church and eventually began dating Mara. Brock stayed up all night, slept during the day and partied hard. Whenever the two got together, they quickly resumed their familiar, easygoing friendship. But Todd was disappointed in Brock’s choices, and he let Brock know it.

  Brock didn’t listen, of course. He assured Todd he was having too much fun. Three different times—each of which Brock clearly recalled—Todd had sat Brock down and talked about the important place Christianity ought to hold in a man’s life. Brock remembered his friend’s warnings and the hammered refrain, “You’ve got to make a choice, Brock. You have to make a decision to get off the road you’re on and turn to Christ. Give him your life. Surrender.”

  Brock had laughed at the idea of ever giving up control of his destiny. Surrender? You’re kidding! Give up parties in favor of church? No way.

  But Todd had been right, as he usually was. Brock’s pursuits had left him empty. And his current efforts to fill the hole in his life weren’t turning out much better. He wondered if things would ever change.

  As he entered the living room, he spotted Mara standing next to the blazing fire, her arms still crossed and her mouth set in a rigid line.

  “Why didn’t you go with them?” she asked without looking at him.

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Work.”

  She let out a sigh of exasperation. “You could take one evening off to go to their party.”

  “Look, no way am I going to drive to some shindig in Las Cruces. First, I have a sick cow to take care of. She’s down in the barn, and I have to check on her every hour or so tonight. And second, I’m your husband, and people are beginning to find that out. If I go to a party with Sandy or someone draped around my neck, that’s not going to look too great, is it?”

  Mara swallowed. “I don’t want your misguided chivalry, Brock,” she told him, her voice hard. “You may be my husband, but I know better than to expect loyalty or celibacy from you.”

  “You don’t know a thing about me.”

  “I heard the way your friends talked. You’re not exactly known for long-term relationships.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never been married till now.”

  “Oh, come on, Brock!” Mara twisted the wedding band Todd had given her. “We’re not really married, and you know it.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you want out of this thing?”

  “I’m telling you I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

  “If I’m trapped, you’re trapped, too. We’re in it together, Mara, and it’s a lot more tangled than I thought it’d be.”

  “Whose fault is that? Are you implying I tricked you into this marriage?”

  “I said we’re both caught. We chose it.”

  Mara stared into his eyes. “You offered me a way out of one deep hole. Sometimes I feel like I fell right into another one.”

  “What kind of a hole are you in, Mara?”

  “This crazy marriage.” She swung her arms out. “We obviously don’t love each other.”

  “Don’t we?”

  “Well, no.” Staring at him, her breath went shallow. “Of course not.”

  “So, I’m trapped in this crazy, loveless marriage, which keeps me from going out to parties with Sandy and her pals. Big loss. What’s it keeping you from?”

  Brock walked toward her, his hands at his sides and his eyes fastened on hers. He had felt this way before. Consuming. He wanted to devour Mara, and against all reason he suddenly believed she wanted him to.

  He saw the wariness in her eyes. And the desire. If he tore down her walls, he could destroy her. And she could destroy him, too.

  “This marriage is keeping me a prisoner,” she said, taking a step backward.

  “How?”

  “This house.”

  “You can walk out of here any time. Take your baby and go. You’ve told me I’m useless to you. I’ll never be Abby’s father.”

  “Todd is her father.”

  He stopped a foot away and leaned toward her. “Todd is your prison, not this marriage. Look at the ring on your hand. You’re still married to him, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Mara whispered.

  “You made a lifetime commitment to a man who died a long time ago.”

  “It’s only been six months.”

  “Seven.”

  “So what? It doesn’t matter how many months have gone by. He’s still my husband.”

  “Todd isn’t coming back, Mara.”

  “I know!” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Mara.” He reached out a hand to her. “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t meant to hurt her. His words were the message he had told himself again and again. Todd wasn’t coming back. Todd was gone. And it was Brock’s fault. Now he had thrown those words at Mara and hurt her all over again.

  “You’re as committed to Todd as I am,” she retorted. “You’re just as bound and imprisoned by his memory. You married me out of some misguided sense of obligation.”

  “And I’ll never break that vow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brock turned aside and walked past her to the fire. As he knelt on the hearth and stared into the licking flames, he wondered what was happening to him. Had he turned his back on his friends to spend a lifetime with a woman he could never touch? Had he given up a life of freedom and pleasure for this? The anger, the resentment, the constant guilt…Yes, Brock concluded. Because it was the only way to pay for what he had done.

  “Todd,” he said to the fire, and he realized the word had somehow changed in meaning for him. “I’m loyal to Todd. It’s because of him that I’ll never break my vow to you.”

  “Todd is gone,” Mara whispered behind him. “You keep telling me that.”

  “I know.”

  “How long can you honor a promise to a dead man?”

  Brock slammed his hands on his thighs as he swung around and stood to face her. “How long, Mara? You tell me.”

  “I don’t know!”

  “I don’t know, either.”

  They stared at each other, neither daring to move. Brock could hear the blood hammering in his temples. How could this have happened? How could he be standing a breath away, willing her to be the first to break the barrier between them?

  If she said one word. If she reached out to him. If she touched him. Everything would collapse, and he would take her straight into his arms.

  “Abby’s probably hungry,” she said in a low voice. “I’m going now. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

  He caught her arm. “Mara, believe one thing. I didn’t let Todd fall off that cliff. It was an accident.”

  “Don’t!” She tried to break away, but his fingers closed tighter around her wrist. He couldn’t release her. Not yet.

  “If you won’t hear me out, you’ll never let it go, Mara. You’ll never be able to forgive me.”

  “I’m not sure I want to forgive you.”

  “Because you would have to admit I’m not all bad? You’d have to see some of what Todd saw in me. If you forgave me, you would know me.”

  “Do those buddies of yours know you?” She shook her head. “I don’t think anyone really knows you, Brock. I’m not sure you know yourself.”

  He dropped her arm. “Todd knew me.”

  “Maybe.” Mara faced him, her eyes narrowing. “But I don’t want to know you.”

  He nodded, bitterness in his mouth. “You want to nurture your pain like that little baby you keep hidden away in the back room. You know I loved Todd. You know I’d never hurt him. He fell off that cliff, and I did everything I could to save him, but he—”

  “Stop talking about it!”

  “You’re going to hold on to your bitterness and nurse it every day of your life until it grows big enough to eat you alive.”

  “Why do you care what I do?” she exploded. “What difference does it make? What
do you want from me?”

  He grabbed her and jerked her against him. “I want…I want…” With every ounce of strength he could summon, he fought the need to embrace her.

  “Brock,” she gasped.

  “Go feed your baby.” He set her aside and turned his back. “I’ve got a sick cow.”

  He strode across the living room and through the foyer. He flung the front door open so hard it banged against the wall before slamming behind him. In a moment, his pickup roared to life and gravel crunched beneath its wheels as it blasted down the driveway.

  Brock glanced at the old grandfather clock on his way down the hall to his bedroom. A little past one in the morning. He felt dead on his feet, but he was hungry enough to eat his own horse. Tending the ailing cow all evening, he’d missed supper, drunk nothing but black coffee and shot his nerves to shreds.

  At least the animal had pulled through. She must have eaten some kind of noxious weed. With the onset of winter, the good grass had died back, and the cattle sometimes poked their noses where they shouldn’t. This cow had been a good breeder, often giving birth to twins, and Brock sure didn’t want to lose her. He had hauled her down from the pasture and tended her until she’d passed the poison.

  Though he was no veterinarian, he had learned how to handle most livestock ailments, and he kept a good supply of medicines on hand. Now the animal was in the foreman’s care, and she should be back on her feet by morning. Pedro Chavez cared as much about the ranch as Brock did, and Pedro never balked at being roused from his sleep after midnight.

  After tossing his hat on his bed, Brock raked his fingers through his hair and gave a long stretch. His back ached from bending over for hours without a break. His muscles felt as though they’d been tied in knots. At least he hadn’t had time to think much about Mara.

  Unwilling to permit even her name to slip into his mind, he stripped off his shirt, tugged the tail of his thermal undershirt out of his jeans’ waistband and rubbed a hand across his flat belly. Empty. But he’d better take a shower before he ate. He started to unbuckle his belt, and his stomach gave a loud rumble.

  On second thought, the shower could wait another fifteen minutes, while his appetite couldn’t. Still in his boots and jeans, Brock walked silently down the darkened hall to the kitchen. He flipped on a low light over the stove and opened the refrigerator as he wondered if he would find anything besides Pierre’s sauces, marinades and fresh vegetables. A thick roast beef sandwich and a couple of dill pickles would sure hit the spot.

  Opening a few plastic-lidded boxes, he located some cheese, chicken breasts and carrots. He set them on the counter and pondered the usual absence of mayonnaise in the house. Pierre disliked store-bought mayonnaise even though Brock had complained that it was hard to make a decent sandwich without the stuff.

  As usual, butter would have to do. There was never any sliced white bread, either, but Pierre’s famous rolls usually could be found in the pantry.

  Brock was crossing the kitchen toward the smaller room when he spotted a shadow moving slowly across the courtyard outside. He stopped in his tracks and studied the ephemeral shape.

  Blinking, he wondered if he had imagined the movement. Two strides took him to the window. He leaned across the sink and peered into the darkness. In the moonless night, a shrouded, bulky figure vanished behind a thicket of shrubbery.

  Brock frowned. In all his years on the ranch, he’d never had a thief. But everyone who worked for him knew payday was getting close, and Christmas bonuses already were stashed in the house’s safe. Any familiarity with Brock’s habits would tell a potential burglar that the master of the house was often away and inner doors were never locked. The courtyard wall was an easy climb. Too easy.

  Brock slipped down the length of the counter and opened a cabinet door. Sliding across the top shelf, his fingers found the cool, slick steel of a pistol. He brought the weapon to chest level and checked the chamber. Loaded.

  His heart thudding in his chest, he snagged a sheepskin coat from the hook by the door and pulled it on. Gun in one hand, he turned the doorknob with the other. The hinges barely creaked as he eased the door open. Hugging the wall, Brock edged out into the darkness.

  “Hush little baby, don’t say a word,” Mara’s voice sang softly, “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”

  Great, Brock thought. His thief was a tired mother with a fussy baby. He let out his breath as Mara emerged along the starlit path, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders and a whimpering Abby nestled in her arms.

  “And if that mockingbird won’t sing,” she went on, her voice a little quivery, “Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.”

  She strolled past Brock, unaware that he stood a few steps away in the shadows, his gun now in his coat pocket and his eyes following her. He could see the round, pale curve of Abby’s head tucked in the crook of her mother’s elbow. How long had it been since he’d laid eyes on the baby? Mara had kept her daughter away from him ever since they’d come out to the ranch. Brock tried to swallow the ache that tightened in his throat as he recalled the moment the doctor had placed the tiny bundle in his arms.

  Two weeks ago, he’d have done anything for Abby. Now he could hardly remember how she looked. In the hospital, he had watched the baby being carried in and out through Mara’s door. Half the time, he had wheeled her bassinet down the hall himself. As she lay in the small plastic cart, he had studied Abby’s petal-pink skin and wispy eyelashes. He had brushed a fingertip over her rosebud mouth. But once inside his own home, Abby had been kept from him. She was Mara’s daughter. Todd’s baby.

  As Mara hummed her way around the courtyard, Brock gritted his teeth. In spite of his good intentions, had he made a terrible mistake bringing the two of them into his house? Had he given up what little pleasure he had in life for a woman who was bitter and unforgiving? If it weren’t for Todd, he never would have married someone like Mara. He never would have married at all. Period.

  Did he resent Todd? Maybe. But how could he be angry at a man for dying?

  Once again, the memory of that afternoon on the cliffs at Hueco Tanks clicked on in Brock’s mind. Though he knew he had done all he could to save his friend’s life, he blamed himself as much as Mara did. Todd had never been the natural athlete Brock was, and he had neither studied as much about rock-climbing nor practiced as often as his friend. Todd had trusted Brock to keep him safe on the cliffs—and, as always, Brock had trusted himself. But Brock had failed. Todd was dead…and the angry Mara would make him pay any way she could.

  “And if that billy goat won’t…” she sang tiredly, pausing to search for the words to the lullaby. “And if that billy goat won’t…eat, Mama’s gonna buy you a…piece of meat.”

  She was making up the song. The edges of her nubby pink robe drifted around her slippered feet as she padded back and forth, back and forth, swaying Abby to the rhythm of her footsteps. Her breath made little puffs of steam in the crisp night air.

  “And if that piece of meat won’t…cook,” she went on in a low, almost tuneless voice, “Mama’s gonna buy you a crochet hook. And if that crochet hook…gets bent, Mama’s gonna buy you a canvas tent.”

  At the inane words to her song, Brock fought the grin that tickled the corners of his mouth. He definitely resented Mara and her self-righteous intolerance, but at the same time he was drawn to her. He knew he needed her forgiveness; he sensed that he needed more than that from this woman who somehow had become his wife.

  “And if that canvas tent falls down, Mama’s gonna buy you a wedding gown.” She was over by the swimming pool now, walking past the empty, covered hole. Rocking Abby, she gazed into her baby’s face as she sang.

  What did Brock truly want from Mara? Acceptance? Peace? At this point he would gladly accept the barest smile.

  “And if that wedding gown…” Mara stopped singing, stopped walking, stopped rocking. Her voice trembled as she went on. “If that wedding gown falls apart, Mama’s gonna mend your
broken heart. And if your broken heart won’t…stop hurting…”

  Brock watched her from a distance. She stood like a statue at the edge of the pool. The baby had calmed down, and Mara let out a deep, lingering breath.

  “Oh, Abby,” she said softly.

  Brock recognized the tone in her voice. She had said the same thing to him. Oh, Brock. But what did Mara want? What could he give her? Never in his life had he felt such a tangle of emotions.

  “Let’s go back inside,” she said softly.

  She started toward her room, and Brock stepped out from the wall. In less than a minute, Mara would be gone. He wouldn’t see Abby again for days, maybe weeks. Hard telling when he would even catch a glimpse of Mara. But he had to let her go. He had no right to her.

  Just as Mara pushed open her door, Abby let out a loud wail.

  “Oh, no.” Mara stopped and leaned her head against the door frame. “Not again, Abby. Please, I’m so…so tired.”

  She clutched the sobbing baby to her breast and lifted her eyes to the sky. Clearly frustrated and teetering at the edge of exhaustion, she swallowed back tears. Brock studied her, his own impulse to help manacled and impotent. With Abby howling at the top of her tiny lungs, Mara turned into the darkness of her suite and shut the door behind her.

  Brock leaned back against the chilly wall and listened to the sounds of a baby crying and a mother attempting to sing once again. In the darkness, his stomach grumbled loudly, and he recalled the makings of his chicken dinner spread out on the kitchen table. He had been on his way to fetch a roll. Definitely, he was hungry. Too hungry to be walking across the courtyard toward Mara’s door. He should head for the kitchen, eat his sandwich, take his shower. He sure shouldn’t knock on her door.

  “Brock?” Still holding Abby, Mara peered through the slit between the open door and the frame. “Is that you?”