“You think you’re not wallowing in it right now?” he barked back at her. “You’ll never get over Todd’s death. You’re going to let it haunt you forever.”
“Who’s it haunting?” she burst out. “Me, or you?”
“Us!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her tightly against him. Pressed between them, Abby let out a muffled cry. “It’s haunting us.”
“There is no us.”
“You’re lying to yourself, and you know it. Until we talk about what happened, Todd is as alive between us as this baby.”
“It’s Abby, Brock,” she choked out. “I’m so afraid for her. Todd’s gone. What if something happens to me?”
“Mara, I’m here for her. For you.”
As she swallowed a sob, he brushed a kiss on her lips. A quick touch of his mouth to hers, and then he drew back. He hadn’t meant to do it, had intended to maintain some distance between them. With other women, Brock never prefaced a kiss with explanations, rationales or apologies. But for some reason, he felt he ought to have talked this over with Mara beforehand. She wasn’t just any woman. She was different, a special treasure who had stepped into his life and might walk back out at any moment. During the past few days, he had begun to realize that he couldn’t afford to startle or frighten her. He couldn’t take the risk that she might bolt.
At the same time, how could he deny his own desire for her? They were two adults. Married to each other, for goodness’ sake. What harm could one chaste kiss do?
But now she was looking into his eyes with an expression he couldn’t begin to decipher, and he felt more tangled and confused than ever. In his arms, Abby squirmed, her tiny fists pummeling against the sheath of quilts, but the only sensation Brock absorbed was the scent of this beautiful woman’s skin as his hand slid up the side of her damp cheek.
“Mara,” he ground out, “I know you still love Abby’s father. I know you’re not over Todd.”
“You don’t know anything, Brock.” She spoke as though she could barely breathe. “You don’t know me at all.”
He wove his fingers through her hair, reveling in the strands of silk. Her breath was warm and clean, and her mouth was so very close to his own. And he wanted to taste her lips again.
“I know you’ll always love Todd,” he murmured. “I know that. I understand it. I’m trying to honor that.”
Brock tried to think about the baby, about Todd, about anything but his desire to stroke Mara’s sweet skin. He imagined his lips moving down her neck, and he reached to touch her.
“Brock!” she gasped as she caught his arm with her hand. “I do love Todd. I’m sure I do. It wouldn’t be right to feel any other way, would it?”
Every muscle in Brock’s arms went rigid with tension. Was she asking? Did she really want to know what he thought? Her scent drifted around his head in an intoxicating perfume. The warmth of her hair spilled through his fingers, and her mouth beckoned. He gazed at her lips, aching to kiss her again in spite of a squirming baby and the threat of tears for a lost husband.
“It might be all right,” he said slowly. “It might, Mara.”
He saw her tremble as his eyes traveled to her mouth. Ragged breath escaped his chest. His hand slipped to cup the back of her neck, and he drew her close. He wanted her so badly, and every male instinct he possessed told him she was eager for his kiss. But he hesitated…so scared that he would frighten her away.
“Mara,” he began, demanding order of the words that tumbled through his mind like falling blocks. “I don’t understand everything that’s happening between us—”
“Nothing’s happening.” She placed her hand on his chest, holding him back. “Between us there’s just…we both loved Todd, and now…now there’s Abby to take care of…”
“There’s more than that, Mara.” His mouth covered hers. With a gentle kiss, he tested the soft curves of her lips. His hand behind her head drew her closer, increasing the pressure of his kiss.
“Brock,” she murmured, allowing the kiss as her hand slid up his arm and over the rigid mounds of his muscle.
For minutes he could never have counted, they were lost to the winter sun, the scent of dried grasses, the fidgeting of a baby. Brock memorized her mouth as his hand traced down the line of her back. And then she broke away from him, gasping for breath.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. “What have I done? What have I done?”
“Mara—”
“No, Brock, we have to stop this right now.” She stepped backward, breaking out of his arms. “I have to feed Abby. I have to take care of my daughter.”
She reached for her child, but he placed his hand on her arm. “Mara, please don’t go.”
“Let me have my baby!” Lifting Abby, she turned and half ran from him, stumbling on the uneven ground as she fled. He had lost her.
Watching her go, he thought of the trail of debris he had left in the wake of his selfish pursuits. Used-up cars, broken-down boots, wrecked boats. Wounded friendships. Cast-off women. Todd. It had been Brock’s idea to climb Hueco Tanks. And he had lost his best friend.
Now Mara. She ran from him, eager to escape. More than anyone, Mara knew. She understood his empty heart. She saw through his futile effort to pay off his guilt. To erase his sin. She saw, and she fled.
Good for you, Mara, he thought. Run from me. Run, before I hurt you, too.
At the entrance to the trading post, a huge cottonwood tree lifted denuded gray branches into the chill air. Desperate for refuge, Mara carried her now-howling bundle toward it. A fallen limb provided a sturdy seat, and she settled onto it, tucking her baby into the nest of her lap. With expertise born of practice, she tossed a blanket over her shoulder and lifted her sweater.
Abby’s wails faded instantly, but Mara felt nothing close to the comfort and warmth she was able to provide for her child. She stared down at the wedding band on her free hand and focused on the shimmering gold.
What had she done? She had kissed Brock Barnett, that’s what. She had more than kissed him. She had practically devoured him. Every ribbon of moral, God-fearing restraint and decency had unraveled and shredded and been blown to the wind. How exciting and wonderful! How shameful and terrible.
She had never acted this way with Todd. They had been compassionate and gentle and never, never impulsive. Todd had been Mara’s first and only lover. Never for all the world would she have broken their bond of faithfulness.
But less than a year after his death, she had fallen into Brock Barnett’s arms like some teenager crazed with hormones firing out of control. Even now, her breath came in tiny, hot gasps. Her lips were still damp, tingling from the pressure of his kiss. She ran her tongue over her lower lip, tasting him.
Dear Lord, where are You? She lifted her eyes to the bare limbs in a prayer for heavenly aid. She needed help. She needed a refuge. She needed a miracle.
Why had she done this awful thing? She hadn’t meant to. She had prayed against it. And yet, she had given herself to Brock’s kiss as though they were married.
They were married. But, no, they weren’t. Not really. Not in God’s eyes. Oh, this was bad.
Lord, please forgive me, Mara prayed as she stroked her hand over her daughter’s velvety head. I know I let Brock kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me. I still want it. But I shouldn’t. It’s not Your plan, and I know that. Forgiving him doesn’t mean I should just let him into my life. I should love him, right, Lord? But as a friend. That’s all. Right?
Mara groaned. Why had this happened? How could she and Brock ever pretend it hadn’t? How could they go on in their separate, uninvolved circles of life? But they had to.
Brock was wrong. There was no us. There was nothing between them. It was far too soon, and she didn’t even like him.
But she did like him. He was kind to her baby, he loved his ranch and he cared about Mara’s thoughts and feelings. He was everything a woman could want.
That was the whole problem! Women went wildly crazy for him, and he knew it
. He took advantage of his masculine appeal with every available female—including Mara. She had fallen for his wiles like a silly schoolgirl. What a fool she was.
Abby continued nursing as Mara lifted back the blanket and studied her tiny daughter. Her face was still a bright mottled pink from her distress, and her miniature fingers gripped her mother’s finger tightly. The knitted white cap had fallen away somewhere, leaving the baby’s wispy tufts of pale hair to blow and drift in the chilly winter breeze.
A flood of guilt washed through Mara as she tucked blankets around the precious little face. In Brock’s arms, she had forgotten all about her own child. What evidence of his treacherous hypnotism could be more obvious than that? She gently turned the baby on her lap and settled her on the other side.
When she lifted her head, Brock stood ten paces away.
“Mara, don’t run away from me again,” he said, his voice deep and his tone angry.
Slipping her arms around Abby, Mara drew the baby closer. “What happened back there was a mistake.”
“I don’t make mistakes.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Not that kind. Not with you.”
“Go away, Brock.”
“Don’t try to stop this. It’s right, and you know it.”
“It’s not right.” She shook her head. “No, I will not play this game with you.”
“This is no game. You’re my wife.”
“Stop it! You know why we got married. It was for Abby, for Todd. Not for us. Not for thoughtless…stupid…mistakes.”
“I won’t stop. I won’t quit on you, Mara.”
“What do you want?”
“The same thing you want.”
She studied him as he observed her. Tall, confident, he waited for her admission of desire. Shaded beneath the brim of his Stetson, his brown eyes regarded her. He had settled his hands in his pockets, waiting.
“What I want,” she said evenly, forcing her wayward heart and her impetuous body into silence, “is to be left alone.”
“Why?”
“Because I need room to breathe, to grieve. I need to heal and grow past everything that has happened to me. I need to be Abby’s mother. I need to be Todd’s widow.”
He took a deep breath, then released it slowly. “Maybe that is what you need. What you want is another thing. I think you know what you want, and it doesn’t have a thing to do with being a mother or a widow.” Giving her a last glance, he turned his back. “I’ll take you and Abby to the ranch house when you’re ready.”
Mara watched him walk away, his broad shoulders outlined in morning sunlight.
Brock did give Mara room. He decided if she needed time to think things over, she could have it. He hadn’t learned to bury himself in work for nothing.
It took him two weeks to put up new barbed-wire fencing on the north side of the ranch. Nights, he slept in the bunkhouse with the men he had rounded up to crew the project. They ate beans and steaks, played their guitars and sang ballads, and he told himself he wasn’t thinking about Mara at all. Hardly at all, anyway.
The week before Christmas, Brock drove to Santa Fe to buy gifts for his staff. It was a tradition. He stayed at the La Fonda Hotel near the plaza and looked through the galleries for Indian paintings, pottery and jewelry. He bought Rosa Maria a turquoise-and-silver squash blossom necklace with rows of blue stones. He found a coral-encrusted silver hair clip for Ermaline and some games for her kids. At a gourmet boutique, he located the new grill attachment Pierre had been wanting for his stove. The chef would be in seventh heaven over that.
For his men, Brock bought heavy, waterproof canvas duster coats. Good protection against the howling winds and driving rains of New Mexico’s vast plains. He picked up a few new lariats, a good saddle and a bundle of wool blankets woven by a Hispanic family who lived near Chimayo. He ate blue corn enchiladas at The Shed one afternoon and a big bowl of posole at The Pink Adobe another night.
Trying to push Mara out of his mind, he went down to the hotel bar and introduced himself to a pretty woman, an attorney for the state. She was smart, confident, aware of her good looks. When she asked him to dance, he considered it…for about two seconds. He begged off and spent the rest of the evening walking the cold, empty streets of Santa Fe.
He didn’t want another woman. Couldn’t imagine ever wanting anyone but Mara. He wasn’t sure how such a thing had happened to him. Maybe it came about the day he watched her give birth, or maybe in those long hours at the hospital while she learned to be a mother. Maybe he had lost himself to her only that morning in the old adobe ruin when she had looked into his eyes and welcomed his kiss.
But he thought it had probably started a long time before. Images of Mara had floated through his life for years, beginning with the evening Todd had introduced them at an art gallery. She had talked about the Anasazi tribe and some research paper she was working on. They had all been in college then—he was tightly strung, wild and brazen; she was serious, high-minded and religious to a fault. They had nothing in common. But the moment he met her he saw something in her gray-green eyes…something that connected with him deep inside…and he’d never quite gotten over it. Not even during all the years when she was his best friend’s wife.
Now Mara was his own wife. In spite of another man’s ring on her finger, she wanted Brock as deeply as he wanted her. Their kiss had proved that. But she was scared and confused. She had built herself a wall of protection—nearly as insurmountable as his own. Out of respect for her, and for Todd, he knew he ought to let that barrier stand.
Maybe it had something to do with religion, too. Mara held a deep faith in God that Brock found hard to understand. Despite all she had been through—maybe because of it—she trusted God more than she would ever trust any human being. She and Todd had shared that. Todd called it their “faith foundation.”
Brock had no foundation but himself. Until Todd’s death, he had held up the walls of the fortress he had built around himself pretty well. But with his best friend’s slip on a cliff face, Brock finally understood his frailty. He couldn’t save Todd. He couldn’t save himself.
Could Mara’s God? Was God the answer to the empty hole inside him? The foundation was missing…the fortress was weak…and the walls were crumbling into a giant cave that had been there the whole time. Brock had tried to convince himself that Todd’s death had carved out that gaping maw. But he knew it had been there long before that tragic evening at Hueco Tanks.
After checking out of the hotel, he drove back to his ranch, arriving at midafternoon on Christmas Eve. Every year his friends threw a party in Las Cruces, and he’d never missed it. This would be his first time to go alone. He dreaded the thought of unwinding Sandy’s tentacles all evening. As he pulled his Jaguar into the garage, he again mulled over the option of asking Mara to go with him.
But to take her into that den of wildcats? She would never go. Besides, he hadn’t seen her since the incident at the cliffs three weeks before. He wasn’t even sure she still lived at his house. Maybe she had moved away and taken the whirlwind of emotion with her.
As he walked across the drive toward the kitchen door at the rear of the home, a light flurry of snowflakes sifted out of the gray sky. Loaded with packages, he elbowed the door open and backed into the room. At the sound of something hitting the countertop, he turned around.
“Brock,” Mara said, her voice almost a whisper. “You came back.”
“Hello, Mara.” Looking at her, he felt like a starving man set before an unexpected feast. “You’re still here.”
She was standing by an open cupboard door, a can of mixed nuts in one hand and a string of Christmas-tree lights in the other. She had pulled her blond hair up into a high ponytail fastened with a garland of silver tinsel. A red sweater skimmed over her curves and ended at the waist of a pair of black slacks. Her shoeless feet wore bright crimson socks decorated with little white snowmen.
He pushed the door shut behind him
with his boot and set his packages on the counter. She was beautiful. Too beautiful. He felt his control slipping. Make conversation.
“How’s Abby?” he asked.
“Big.”
“She’s a month old now?”
“Five weeks.”
He took off his hat and brushed the snowflakes from the brim. “You okay, Mara?”
“I’m fine. I’ve been busy. Calling builders, doing more fort research, talking to the BLM.” She closed the cupboard door. “How are you?”
“Good.” He held her eyes, unable to pull away. “You look great.”
A pink flush blossomed on her cheeks. “Pierre and I have been working on meals to help me trim down. He’s even cut back on the butter and cream sauces.”
“Whoa. You must have won his heart.”
She smiled. “We like to work together. I asked him how he made eclairs, so he invited me into the kitchen. Now I take lessons almost every day.”
Brock drank in the sight of her mouth, her white teeth, her almond eyes. Every wall he had worked to erect came tumbling down the moment she smiled. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from taking her in his arms.
“Sounds like you’re getting used to things around here,” he said.
“Everyone’s been wonderful. Rosa Maria’s daughter helps me look after Abby.”
“Ramona?”
“Yes, she’s fabulous. I’ve even been able to leave Abby with her a couple of times to go into Las Cruces for meetings. I found out about your trading post, too, by the way. It was built in 1887. I have copies of the deed in my room. And Ermaline’s teaching me how to quilt. We found a pieced quilt top up in a cupboard in the lounge, so we’re finishing it. I really like her.”
“You haven’t been lonely.”
“Well…” She hesitated as though unwilling to answer. Then she brightened suddenly. “Oh, Sherry drove out for a visit. She brought Abby some Christmas presents. Which reminds me…I invited the staff and their families over this evening. Sort of a thank you and tree-decorating party rolled into one. I didn’t expect you…and I thought it might be fun to share Christmas with someone.”
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