Sixty Acres and a Bride

by Regina Jennings

  Again, she reached for the door, but he caught her hand on the knob. “Please, Rosa. Stay a minute.”

  “Why? So you can insult me again?”

  “No.” He wiped his face hard, hoping to drag his anger away. “So I can cool down and apologize! I know I need to, but you’re just going to have to give me a minute before I feel like it!”

  She stopped and fixed him with a cold stare. He took a few steps away and hooked his thumbs in his back pockets. His plaid-covered chest rose with deep, long draws as he attempted to catch his breath in the thick night air.

  “Rosa, I—”

  “What did you call me?” She wasn’t giving him an inch.

  “I beg your pardon—Mrs. Garner . . .”

  She shifted her weight to the other leg and continued to stare him down. How’d he get in this situation? The trollop who’d set him on fire only moments earlier had transformed into a haughty matron. He’d insulted the flirt and had to apologize to the widow.

  “Mrs. Garner, my only desire is to help and protect you.” Wiping the memory of her smoldering looks from his mind, he focused on the proper, delicate lady in front of him, who currently didn’t seem to need help and protection. “If you knew me better, you’d understand that I’m only looking after your best interest. This is a rough land, and it can be extremely harsh on ladies who are vulnerable, and regardless of what you may think, you are vulnerable.” He stepped closer to her, but she took a quick step back. “You’re a lady and you’re family, and that means, whether you like it or not, I’m somewhat responsible for you. I’ve tried to take you under my wing—”

  “There you go again,” she interrupted. “Taking a lady under your wing sounds too . . . too personal. You accuse me of impropriety . . .”

  “I did not! Merely the appearance of impropriety. And that saying? Jesus said it! It’s not inappropriate at all. It’s like a mother hen caring for her chicks.”

  “Oh, so you mean that I shouldn’t jump to conclusions if I’m ignorant of your culture?”

  Weston watched, fascinated, as she adjusted her demeanor. Obviously she felt she had won the argument. Well, maybe she had, but he wasn’t budging from his opinion that she had no business dancing la mariposa, or whatever they wanted to call it, with American men. Tradition or not, Texans wouldn’t wait for a translation when they read those looks in a beautiful woman’s eyes. Rosa had to be unaware of the effect the dance had on men. She couldn’t have meant anything by it. Could she?

  Time to bury the hatchet.

  “Point taken.” He bowed gallantly to her. “I have never seen that dance before, and I am sure that it was danced in good taste and innocence. It was my ignorance—as you named it—that caused me to misinterpret your intentions.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. I accept your apology.”

  “But I’m not apologizing for stopping the dance.” She frowned, but he continued. “I’m still convinced, Mrs. Garner, that it would be a mistake for you to perform that particular dance again.”

  Maybe weakness only affected him, but he suspected his brothers would have the same response. She shouldn’t be a stumbling block to them. “I won’t be the only man who misconstrues la mariposa. I just might be the only one honest enough to tell you. Sorry if that embarrasses you, but please don’t do it again.”

  He didn’t wait for her consent. He’d said his piece, and he couldn’t get out of there quick enough. Wes turned to go, but she wasn’t finished with him yet.

  “You should know that your dances would not be allowed in my village.”

  He stopped, one foot already on the bottom step of the porch.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your dances—” she leaned toward him and added in a near whisper—“I find them shocking.”

  “Go on.” He was intrigued.

  “The way you . . . touch. Louise told me that you put your hands on each other. Never tonight did I touch a man.”

  “No, but you sure looked like you wanted to.” He allowed a crooked grin to appear.

  “But I didn’t!” She threw her hands in the air in protest. “There’s a difference.”

  Tilting his head back, he rolled his eyes. “Are you talking about a square dance? That’s ridiculous. Even our waltzes don’t compare to what you just did in there.” He motioned to the barn, where the music had resumed.

  “You mean that you can hold a woman like that and it doesn’t mean anything?”

  “Yes, absolutely. I’ve danced with my sister, my aunts, and practically every woman in the county. It’s nothing.” Seeing her disbelief, he snatched her from the door and dragged her to the porch step. Positioning her on the step, he backed down one so that they were face to face.

  “Don’t look like that. I’m not going to hurt you. Just pretend I’m a ewe.” Rosa narrowed her eyes at him, but he wasn’t dissuaded. Taking both of her hands, he dropped one on his shoulder and rotated her right hand, their palms sweeping across each other until the grasp was correct.

  “Then we go completely loco and allow me to hold your waist . . . like this.” Her eyes grew wide at the feel of his hand on her thin shirt just above her hip. To be honest, he was taken aback, as well. Every woman he’d ever danced with had been so tightly corseted that he might as well hug the slop bucket, but not Rosa. He felt the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton fabric. He could tell where her ribcage ended and her pliable waist began.

  Swallowing hard, he reminded himself what he was trying to prove. He couldn’t sabotage his own argument. They were separated on two different levels of the porch, making it impossible to actually perform the steps, so he improvised.

  “Let’s do two steps this way.” He led her gently, paying heed to the music wafting across the yard. “Then two steps back. Pretty boring compared to your dances, but if we had a dance floor it’d be better.”

  She stepped woodenly, completely unlike the exotic butterfly she’d portrayed earlier. Her hands trembled. Without thinking he ran his thumb over her palm, but her discomfort only increased. Maybe it was too quiet.

  “Mrs. Garner?”

  “Yes, Mr. Garner?”

  Weston’s chest tightened. He forgot what he was going to say. Mr. and Mrs. Garner in each other’s arms, dancing the evening away. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? Oh, God, please don’t cloud my thinking. Let me see this through clearly.

  “I . . . ah . . . I wondered if you enjoyed this evening’s festivities.” When in a fix, dust off the old ballroom manners. “Are you looking forward to the fireworks tonight?”

  She couldn’t answer. Obviously, she was flustered. Her lips quivered; her nimble feet hardly moved. “I don’t think I could ever get used to this.”

  “That’s a pity,” because I could. “But if you would like to call it a night . . .” He released her waist and bowed before letting go of her hand, but instead of leaving, she stood rooted to the spot, looking at him in confusion.

  “What is it, Mrs. Garner?”

  “I’m not sure I should ask this . . .”

  “You have my permission to ask me anything.”

  The wind teased the stray wisps of her hair and the ribbon drawstring of her blouse, but besides that, nothing moved.

  “Is this”—she placed her hand against her heart—“is this how you felt in the barn when I danced for you?”

  His heart dropped somewhere inside his stomach. He felt it pounding away in there. She was a straight shooter, this little one, and she had no idea how potentially inflammatory her question was. Their eyes locked. The conversation could take one of two paths: a wide, seductive trail that would be breathless and exciting but leave them with entangled emotions, or the straight and narrow, which required him to love her like a sister and protect her, even from himself. She was his kinswoman. She deserved his best.

  “Yes, I reckon it is.” He enunciated each word carefully, knowing that he was on thin ice.

  “Oh!” Her eyes grew large. She paced the porch a few
turns before continuing. “Then I should be the one apologizing. I am sorry. I didn’t mean to make you this . . . um . . . what is the word? Alert?”

  His mouth dropped open. Please, God, don’t let her talk to anyone else like this. “That’s an interesting choice of words, ma’am.” He heard the ice cracking under his feet. It was time to flee again. “I accept your apology. Now, if you’d excuse me . . .”

  “But wait! People have dances like this. What if I’m invited? How could I?”

  “You don’t have to. No one will force you to dance with them, but I wish you’d give it another try. A ballroom filled with people is a much better setting than”—he gestured to himself—“this.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She didn’t think she’d try to dance, or she didn’t want to dance with anyone else? He couldn’t decipher her meaning, but the thought of holding her in his arms reminded him of one more thing.

  He scratched the back of his neck and studied his boots. “But if you decide to dance, may I make a suggestion?”

  “What is it?”

  “Please wear a corset.”

  From her reaction, she’d been told that before. Her face reddened and she plucked at her blouse, loosening it where it strained.

  “I don’t know what to say. Louise told me that if a man mentioned . . . well . . .” She tilted her head. “I want you to think I’m a lady. . . .”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind—” But before he could finish what he’d been about to say, she’d slapped him and slipped into the house.

  15

  BAILEY STUMBLED OUT of the barn, right into Weston’s path, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Whoa, there. You just getting up?” Weston asked. He couldn’t sleep in if he wanted to. His mind had kicked in at daybreak, been spinning ever since.

  “Yeah, we were up till about sunrise.”

  “I’m not surprised. Did it rain last night?”

  Bailey yawned, displaying his molars to the world. “Don’t think so. Ground wasn’t wet when we went to bed.”

  “That’s odd. Sure looks green this morning.” Weston pushed against his gun belt, making it ride snug. “But you’re probably right. The dew is light and there’s no mud.”

  Bailey blinked a few times. “Nope. No mud. Looks like it always does to me. But you’re awfully chipper. What’d you find in your stocking?”

  Wes shrugged. He really couldn’t answer that question. Maybe the festivities of the night before caused the unaccustomed feeling of hope, although when he analyzed the evening, he couldn’t think of one positive event that had occurred.

  “I don’t know. Good supper. Fine music. Maybe I needed a holiday more than I realized.”

  “You turned in early enough. Right after that Mexican dance.”

  Ah, the dance. An incident he’d like to forget. The looks, the music, the heat—and his gaping like a dumbstruck moron until he threw a fit and ended it. Should’ve ruined his night, but it didn’t. And he wasn’t going to dwell on it, either. He didn’t want anything to choke out the optimism trying to put out a taproot in his barren heart.

  Hungry. Everyone was getting around late this morning. Understandable, considering their activities the night before, but Aunt Mary would have breakfast ready soon.

  “Yeah, well, I best wash up before food’s on the table. Don’t dawdle. Your ma won’t be pleased.”

  Bailey grunted and staggered to the outhouse.

  It didn’t bother him too bad, the dance. Not since he’d had a chance to talk it out with Rosa.

  He rolled up his sleeves and troubled the cake of soap under the spout, enjoying the crisp scent. Was this a new fragrance? He’d have to ask Mary about it. Sure smelled good.

  What did Rosa think about last night? Would she want to see him? Their parting was confusing, to say the least. The soap squirted from his hands and landed on the ground. Retrieving it, he picked the bits of grass out of the suds and chuckled. That slap had to be one of the most ridiculous events of his life.

  Weston couldn’t remember ever being slapped before. Bad words, insults, forwardness—that’s what usually earned a smack. No lady had ever convicted Mr. Self-Control of any of those failures. And the slap was so regretful, so apologetic. She wasn’t truly offended. He’d seen her mad. If the corset comment had really angered her, his cheek would be blistered.

  But he could tell he was getting nearer to the source of his good temper. His reason for hope sprouted from their time on the porch. Since last night he felt he knew her better and admired her more. They’d reached a crisis that could have set them at odds, but through some direct, difficult discussion they’d pulled together. Now he wondered if anyone in the county understood him as well as she did. If there was anyone else who saw him not as who he had been, or who he was, but as the man he was trying to be.

  Wasn’t that a kicker?

  Lord, I can tell things are changing. I don’t know where you’re leading me, but I’m trying to follow. I’m tired of fighting. I want to smile if I feel like it, fix what needs fixing, and care for your children who need help. Is it all right if I start there? I can’t make any promises about the results, but can I start out like a tenderfoot and see how I get along?

  If his mood was any indication, God granted His permission.

  “I’ll take you home.”

  Weston meant it as an offer, but it came out sounding like a command. He stood, causing Susannah and Ida to bounce on the bench as he left it. Rosa froze with her breakfast dish still in hand. She hadn’t spoken a word the whole meal. Thank goodness for the youngsters. They filled the silence succinctly, but Weston doubted George and Mary were fooled. Last night they saw Rosa running out of the barn with him following her like an angry bull. They knew he’d scared her.

  Weston heard Mary’s boot connect with George’s shin under the table. George winced but took the hint. “Oh! Don’t bother, Wes. I’ll take her. You probably have things to do today.”

  Nothing more important than spending time with the confused little lady.

  “It’s no bother. I insist.”

  Rosa moved like winter sap. She reached for the feed sack apron to start on the dishes when Mary stopped her.

  “No. We’ll get those.” She nodded toward him. “I think Weston means to leave now.”

  Was Rosa that afraid? She disappeared into the girls’ room and came back with her overnight bag. She gave quick kisses to the girls, tousled Tuck’s hair, and touched each of the George Garner men on the back in farewell as she walked behind their bench and out the door.

  “Uncle Weston, what’s wrong with Aunt Rosa?” Ida asked. “She’s acting sad.”

  “She’s acting like she has a date with the hangman,” Samuel corrected.

  Weston hadn’t spoken to her all morning. Not that Rosa was surprised. Their last conversation hadn’t ended well. She picked at the trunk of the sweet gum tree she was hiding behind. No wonder he wanted to get her alone. After a night of preparation, he probably had scads of lectures for her.

  Pandora stood patiently, ripping up mouthfuls of Mary’s yard as Weston saddled Smokey. Rosa stayed out of his way as long as she could, but his task was almost complete. He was looking for her now. She might as well take her medicine.

  She edged her way to the animals. Was that a smile from him?

  “Who are the horses for?”

  He squinted at her. “Us.”

  “I don’t know how to ride a horse.”

  “You said you got bored in Texas, so here’s something new for you to try. Come on over. He won’t bite.” He lowered his chin and peeked out from under the brim of his hat. “I won’t bite, either.”

  Still unsure, she held out her bag to him and tied on her bonnet while he secured the bag to his saddle. To her surprise, he came over to stand toe to toe with her. What was he doing? She couldn’t see his face over her bonnet brim. Just his chest. He pretty much blocked any other view. Heat rushed through her body at the
memories from the night before. She prepared for him to take her in his arms for another dance, but he didn’t. Instead, he wrapped his hands around her waist and swung her up on Smokey’s back.

  Now Rosa could see his face, and it was red.

  “Reckon you didn’t have a chance to make any purchases since last night.”

  She gasped. “Are you talking about corsets again?”

  “I was thinking . . . Oh, I’d best keep my mouth shut. Sorry, okay? I’ve already decided that today’s going to be a good day, so let’s not get cross with each other.”

  Just as well. If he wasn’t mad after last night, she had no right to be.

  She sat crossways in the saddle, just where he put her, then taking advantage of her full skirts, she swung her leg over the saddle horn to sit astride.

  He turned his head quickly.

  Had she already messed up? “Let me guess, this isn’t how ladies ride horses?”

  “It’s how I ride horses and how you ride burros, so we’ll let it be. You don’t need to learn on a sidesaddle yet. That can wait for another day.”

  Rosa released a breath of relief. She didn’t want to repeat last night’s argument, especially on such a beautiful day. At least her full Mexican skirts draped decently. If she’d been wearing a hobble skirt, then she’d have trouble.

  She picked up the supple leather reins and tried to reach the stirrups, glad to have something to do besides invent conversation.

  Weston came to her side and reached for her ankle. She didn’t mean to jump like that. Really. Why was she so skittish? She stared straight ahead at the sheep-filled pasture as he directed her foot forward and adjusted the stirrup length, fumbling with the buckle in the process.

  The silence was unbearable.

  “What do I do?” Rosa asked. “Will this horse ride like a burro?”

  “He’ll follow me. Just don’t fall off.”

  Weston went around to the left side, but she had already moved her foot out of the way. The buckle fastened quickly, and they set off.