by Fran Baker
San Antonio Rose is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
2013 Loveswept eBook Edition
Copyright © 1991 by Fran Baker.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 978-0-345-53517-7
Originally published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, in 1991.
www.readloveswept.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
The Editor’s Corner
Prologue
A car was coming, judging by that cloud of dust down the road, and the restless girl watching from her second-story bedroom window could hardly wait to see who was driving it.
It wasn’t bad enough that she could see her mother’s grave, with a single yellow rose marking the spot, from the window. Or that her father had buried himself under a mountain of paperwork in his first-floor office. But even the ranch manager, who doted on her as if she were his own flesh and blood, had packed up his saddlebags the morning after the funeral and ridden off into the hills to mourn alone.
Callers of any stripe, then, were a welcome sight as far as the twelve-year-old girl was concerned.
With a toss of her head, she flipped her twin blond braids over her narrow shoulders. Then she crossed her arms on the windowsill and kept her eyes peeled for the vehicle that was creating that dirty cumulus in its wake.
She didn’t have long to wait. No sooner had she settled herself, in fact, than a badly dented maroon Studebaker with two blue doors on the driver’s side turned onto the gravel lane leading to the ranch yard. The old car bounced and belched smoke something terrible before it finally came to a stop in front of the house.
When a man in a battered straw hat, baggy work clothes, and sandals made from tires got out, followed by a boy wearing a bright red bandanna, she realized they were probably migrant workers looking for a job. Crowded into the backseat were a woman and two other youngsters, hope warring feebly with the expectation of another rebuff on the faces they pressed to the window.
Trying to beat the doorbell, the girl went tearing out her bedroom and down the stairs. She yanked open the front door, startling the man who was standing there. At the same time her father, who’d probably seen the Studebaker from his office window, came out.
No one moved or spoke for several seconds as the cattle rancher glared impatiently at the two callers. A fifth-generation Texan who’d been wet-nursed on the atrocities at the Alamo, the rancher had no earthly use for Santa Ana’s descendants. Worse yet, he was a recent widower with no sons to carry on his name and a daughter to raise. A daughter who, with her golden hair, gray eyes, and baby-powder skin, was the spitting image of his late wife.
“Speak your piece and speak it in English,” he commanded gruffly. “And then get the hell off my land.”
The boy stiffened as if he’d just been struck. He was older than the girl by four years or so, and several inches taller. He wore denim jeans and a clay-red shirt, both faded by numerous washings. His hair was as black and shiny as a crow’s wing. His skin had the coppery hue of his Spanish ancestors, his straight nose and high cheekbones the noble structure. But it was his eyes that fascinated her, for they were the most beautiful shade of midnight blue she’d ever seen.
Suddenly aware that the boy was examining her as closely as she was him, the girl blushed and dropped her gaze to the scuffed toes of his tennis shoes. But her heart took wing and her stomach went weightless, and she felt forever changed by their moment of mutual curiosity.
Three days later the Mexican moved his wife and children into the largest unit of the furnished fourplex that housed the help. Six years and two broken hearts after that, the entire family just up and disappeared in the middle of the night.…
One
Half the people gathered in the family cemetery had come to pay their last respects to a true son of Texas. The other half had come to make damn sure that Big Tom Crane was dead.
Rafe Martinez parked his ’63 Corvette Stingray in the only available space in the ranch yard, between a Ford F-150 pickup brandishing a gunrack in the back window and a flashy pink Cadillac flaunting a pair of long-horns on the front grille. He thought about gunning the motor—just once, for old time’s sake—then thought again and switched off the ignition.
Eleven years in exile had transformed him, but it certainly hadn’t tamed him. The thick black hair skimming his white shirt collar was still too long by any cattleman’s standards; the matte-metal shades resting on his cheekbones raised more than one eyebrow; and that small silver stud glittering in the lobe of his left ear was a real shocker.
Those remnants of rebellion aside, Rafe had a style all his own. In the land of Stetsons and Western-styled suits, he went bareheaded and wore European-cut clothes that emphasized his broad shoulders, trim waist, and long runner’s legs. A hand-painted silk tie replaced its traditional string counterpart; woven ramie suspenders took the place of a gaudy gold or silver belt buckle. The expensive watch on his wrist told him the time and told everyone else he’d arrived.
His single concession to Lone Star fashion was a pair of hand-stitched black lizard boots. Not only did the soft leather pamper his long, narrow feet, but the extra two inches the heels added to his lean six-foot frame would give him a better view of the gringos’ bald spots when they respectfully removed their hats.
Rafe took off his sunglasses and put them in his breast pocket, then got out of his car and joined the solemn procession across the gravel lane to the grave. He walked with confidence, each movement flowing naturally into the next, as befitted both a successful attorney and a rising star on the political scene.
A state senator, famous for courting the Hispanic vote and then promptly forgetting his promises, went out of his way to shake Rafe’s hand. More jobs for minority contractors on the Alamo Sportsdome, the Anglo legislator pledged with sweaty-palmed desperation. And an appointment to the aquifer task force for the person of Rafe’s choosing.
It was a classic case of too little too late. His countenance as hard and full of mystery as the face of an Aztec lord, Rafe extricated his hand. He silently renewed his vow to see the senator defeated in next year’s primary.
But primary day was a long way off, and he had business to tend to now. Sun dapple and shadows enveloped him when he passed through the open, ornate gates that cordoned off the cemetery where Big Tom would be laid to rest beside his long-deceased wife, Laurrinda.
If nothing else, Rafe thought as he crossed the soft carpet of spring grass, it was a flawless day for a funeral.
The Hill Country had shed its January dullness and draped itself in April’s brilliance. Live oaks and pecan trees sported tender green leaves. The birds wore their brightest plumage. Bluebonnets and Blackfoot daisies blanketed the broad-topped hills as far as the eye could see.
The ranch house, a Victorian monstrosity within sight of the family cemetery,
resurrected memories of a sweeter spring when virile juices had pumped through Rafe’s body and young love had blossomed in his heart. The bitter winters that followed had seared his pride and scarred his soul. They had also strengthened his resolve to prove himself. And prove himself he had. Beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, his own included.
Rafe had left his San Antonio law office at nine that morning and driven the forty miles northeast with the Corvette’s windows open and its powerful engine purring like a cat with a bellyful of cream. He reached his highway exit in record time. Or maybe it only seemed that way because he was running on gasoline these days instead of his glands.
The road he took then—originally a bison path, later an offshoot of the thousand-mile camino real—had been paved at some point since his departure. No matter. He knew its curves as intimately as he’d known those of the girl who used to wait for him at trail’s end.
Like Rafe, the state of Texas had undergone tremendous change in recent years. Crude-oil prices had dropped to a depressing low in the unlamented eighties. As had consumer demand for well-marbled steaks. On the bright side, at least to his way of thinking, language barriers had diminished. And Hispanics had demolished long-standing hurdles in San Antonio politics by taking intermittent control of city hall and the county courthouse.
Only the Circle C had remained unchanged, he realized immediately upon his arrival. Except for the necessary improvements, the sprawling ranch looked virtually the same as when he’d left it—a wire-fenced stronghold that had weathered everything from Comanche Indian attacks to a crippling downturn in the economy.
It remained to be seen how well it would weather Rafe’s return.
Noticing that the mourners had formed a wide arc around the grave, he deliberately but politely worked his way to the front.
A municipal court judge whose ruling he’d appealed just last week nodded silently to him. Cattle ranchers who’d bent many an elbow with Big Tom eyed him suspiciously, while cowhands who’d ridden for the brand with Rafe tipped the brims of their hats in a welcome-back salute. The barons’ diamond-bedecked wives gaped at him in stunned surprise; their designer-dressed daughters gave him the once over … twice.
Rafe’s face was as smooth and cool as the marble desktop in his office, and he let no one and nothing deter him as he took his place and assumed the traditional pose of funereal respect—feet spraddled about six inches apart, and the palm of one hand clasping the back of the other over his lower abdomen.
He wanted to see the woman who stood on the opposite side of the polished bronze casket. And he wanted her to see him.
Jeannie … He almost said her name aloud when he spotted her clinging to the arm of the longtime ranch manager, Rusty Pride. Beside her stood a dark-haired boy of about ten who looked vaguely familiar, behind her a man whom he didn’t recognize but who hovered over her with husbandly concern.
The old hurt rushed back, sharpened on the whetstone of that long-ago betrayal.
Rafe tried to staunch the flow of memories, to forget the past and focus on the present. But they’d merged before his very eyes, in the vision of elegance standing little more than an arm’s length away.
A faille-trimmed, floppy-brimmed black straw hat covered Jeannie’s head, but Rafe remembered how her hair caught sunbeams and threw them shining back to the sky. Angel hair, he’d called it then.
The shaped jacket and slim skirt of her silk suit showcased a figure that had more than fulfilled its womanly promise. Pearl earrings shone discreetly at the juncture of her delicate jawline and gracefully arched neck. A faint iridescence shimmered from the sheer black stockings sheathing her slender legs. The leather pumps that shod her feet completed the portrait of feminine perfection.
She turned to run a comforting hand over the boy’s hair, smoothing down a cowlick in the process, and Rafe got a glimpse of her face beneath her swooping hat brim. A beautiful face, even in grief. She turned still more, absently scanning the half-moon of mourners on the other side of the grave, and their gazes met and held.
A moment of shocked awareness sizzled between them.
“Let us pray,” the minister said, opening his black psalter to begin the simple Protestant service.
Everyone bowed their heads … except Rafe and Jeannie.
The minister’s monotone drifted above the silent gathering as the blue-eyed boy from the barrio and the golden-haired girl from Bolero stared at each other across the flower-covered coffin.
How was it possible that, even in death, her father could keep them apart?
For a fraction of a moment, Jeannie Crane thought her eyes were playing tricks on her.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’d mistaken a tall, dark-haired man for Rafe Martinez. Every once in a while she would spot someone whose muscular build or macho bearing reminded her of him. Her heart would lodge in her throat until she realized she was staring at a stranger. Then she would turn away, relief and regret fighting for the upper hand on her emotions.
But there was no mistaking those blue eyes that still haunted her while asleep and awake. No confusing that proud nose and those prominent cheekbones with someone else’s. And absolutely no doubt about the crisply etched mouth that had so beguiled her at eighteen.
The memories were eleven years old but the pain was as fresh as if it all had happened yesterday.
“Are you all right?” Rusty whispered.
Jeannie tore her gaze away from Rafe and looked at the loyal ranch manager. He wore a brown suit that was nearly as old as he, and, beneath the brim of his black Stetson, an expression that was partly puzzled and partly pained. She glanced down then, and seeing that she had his arm in a death grip, apologetically relaxed her hold.
“Yes,” she answered softly. “I’m fine.”
The minister droned on. A bee buzzed lazily around the wreath of yellow roses lying atop Big Tom’s coffin. The breeze spanked a streamer from the white satin bow that bound the flowers to the lid. And those blue eyes drew her gaze from across the way like a magnet that defied resistance.
By sheer force of will Jeannie shut it all out and bowed her head. Try though she might, she couldn’t stave off the thought that history was repeating itself. That once again she was torn between Big Tom and Rafe Martinez.
Everyone had called her father Big Tom, including Jeannie. Part of it was conditioning—she’d never heard him called anything else. And part of it was his comportment—standing six-five in his stocking feet and weighing in at two hundred fifty pounds in his prime, he’d ruled his widespread cattle kingdom with the proverbial iron hand.
But all the king’s money and all the king’s men hadn’t kept his princess of a daughter from falling in love with the son of a peon.
“Ashes to ashes …” the minister intoned.
One of the six cowhands serving as pallbearers removed the bouquet of roses and set it aside before rejoining the others. Together they lowered their late boss’s coffin into the grave.
“Dust to dust …”
Rusty gently disengaged Jeannie’s hand from his arm and stepped forward to shovel a spadeful of the rich Texas earth onto the lid. The dirt landed with a clump that essentially brought the simple service to an end.
She rested her hand on her son’s heaving shoulder and rubbed it gently. Then fighting tears of her own, she joined in the final “Amen.”
“Miss Jeannie Crane has asked me to thank all of you for your attendance today and to invite you to the house for refreshments,” the minister said as he closed his prayer book.
The mourners began converging on her before filing out of the cemetery. Hands squeezed hers. Murmured condolences came from all sides. Somehow she managed to respond, returning clasps and consolations in grateful fashion.
Rafe didn’t cross over with the others, but it seemed each time she turned to visit with another guest, he managed to be in her line of vision. Because of their proximity, and because they were acquainted with so many of the same people, Jeannie had
known this day would eventually come. But now that the moment of truth had arrived, she found herself totally unprepared for it.
She developed a slight backache from standing so rigidly, and the beginnings of a headache from the tension. Only the thought that she was the one who’d been left in the lurch got her through the endless formalities without falling apart.
Rusty stood devotedly at her side, shaking hands and directing traffic. When the throng thinned out, he looked over at the lone man standing tall against the Texas sky and demanded, “What’s he doing here?”
Jeannie followed the course of Rusty’s glare, her mouth going dry and her palms becoming damp. But before she could form a reply, a gentle hand gripped her elbow and turned her around. Grateful for this small reprieve, she lifted her gaze to Webb Bishop’s intelligent face.
Webb had been Big Tom’s cardiologist and Jeannie’s shoulder to cry on these past eighteen months. Divorced for several years, he was one of the kindest, most considerate men she’d ever met. And lately she’d gotten the impression that he was interested in expanding their relationship from the professional to the personal.
She felt a twinge of guilt as she looked up into his brown eyes, which shone with a patience that had never worn thin. The problem was—
“Are you ready to go back to the house?” he asked her now.
She shook her head. “Not quite.”
“I’m hungry,” Tony complained, his grief taking a temporary backseat to his growling stomach.
Every protective instinct Jeannie possessed came into play as she turned back to her son. Her heart knocked out a warning at the sight of his tear-streaked face, so like the one she’d loved and lost.
For all his failings as a father, Big Tom had been an exemplary grandfather. Maybe he’d seen Tony as the son he never had. Or maybe he’d finally seen the error of his prejudiced ways. Whatever, the gruff cattle rancher had taken one look at the baby boy in the crib beside his daughter’s hospital bed and fallen hopelessly in love.
