The Heart of a Stranger

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  “Of course, I will. I’ll give it to him first thing in the morning.”

  “No. Tonight. Right now.”

  Lourdes sighed. Sweet, sweet Paige. “It’s late, honey.”

  “Not for you. You’re a grown-up.” The four-year-old held her favorite toy, an old ratty pony she’d had since she was a baby. “Please, Mama. It’s the best picture I ever made.”

  Her breath rushed out. She hadn’t intended to contact Juan tonight. “All right. I’ll take it to him.”

  Paige popped up and reached under a puzzle box on the nightstand. She produced the masterpiece in question, a depiction of the sun and the moon and a scatter of stars. “Amy helped me.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Lourdes could see that Amy had guided Paige, instructing her carefully. But even so, it was still Paige’s creation. Some of the stars were bigger than the moon, and the sun had a lopsided smile.

  “Do you think Juan will like it?”

  “I’m sure he’ll love it.” Lourdes blinked to keep herself from crying.

  What would happen when Juan went away? When he returned to his old life?

  “’Night, Mama.”

  “Good night, baby.” She rose and tucked the blanket around her daughter again, adjusting it gently.

  The child cuddled the pony, then peered up at her. “Are you gonna kiss him?”

  Her heart went haywire. “What?”

  “You know. Kiss him.” Although Paige made a silly smacking sound, her voice was as mature as the look in her eye. “’Cause if you want to, it’s okay.”

  “Oh, well…I…” Lourdes stammered. She hadn’t expected her smitten four-year-old to give her permission to romance the boy they both liked.

  “Grown-ups kiss on TV.”

  “This isn’t TV, Paige.”

  “You could marry him. Then he’d be my daddy.” She glanced at her sister, who slept with her own ratty pony. “And Nina’s daddy, too.”

  “Things aren’t that simple, honey. Grown-ups don’t just kiss and get married. They have to get to know each other first.” And fall in love, she thought. And make promises they sometimes didn’t keep. “Now, close your eyes and get some sleep.”

  “Okay. But don’t forget to give Juan my picture.”

  “I won’t.”

  Lourdes turned down the light and carried the drawing into the living room, where she rummaged through her grandfather’s old rolltop desk for a manila envelope.

  She slipped the picture inside and stalled for a moment, more nervous than she’d ever been.

  Should she call Juan first? Warn him that she was on her way?

  Warn him? About what? A gift from a four-year-old?

  “Lourdes?”

  She turned to the sound of Cáco’s voice. The old woman entered the room wearing a peasant-style dress, her salt-and-pepper hair twisted into her signature bun. A pair of oversize hoops dangled at her ears, making her look a bit like a gypsy.

  “Are you going to see Juan?” the old woman asked.

  “Yes.” Lourdes held up the envelope. “To give him Paige’s picture.”

  Cáco tilted her head. “You didn’t notice how sullen she was at dinner.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Your mind was elsewhere.”

  Guilt clawed at her chest. “Does that make me a bad mother?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what does it make me?”

  “A woman interested in a man.” Cáco brushed by to straighten up the living room, to organize the magazines on the coffee table and fold the afghan on the couch. “You missed him.”

  Lourdes drew a breath. “So did Paige.”

  “As did we all.” The old woman arranged the pillows beside the hearth. “The house seems empty without him.”

  “I know. And that scares me.”

  “Then don’t think about it. Just go to him.”

  “I am,” Lourdes said.

  Cáco stopped fussing with the pillows. “Giving him Paige’s picture isn’t enough. You need to tell him about the cross. Tell him why he’s here.”

  “That scares me, too.” More than she cared to admit. At times, it seemed as if her family heirloom truly belonged to him now, as if he were meant to have it. Yet she wanted it back. She wanted to lock it in her jewelry box and protect its memory.

  Cáco made a shooing motion. “Go. Do what must be done. If you don’t, it will only get harder.”

  Yes, Lourdes thought. Do what must be done. Tell Juan about the connection they shared.

  Six

  Juan answered the door, and Lourdes struggled to find her voice. Suddenly he seemed dark and dangerous again. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, and his hair was combed away from his face, exposing hard angles and sharp, rugged features. The bruises around his eyes had lightened, but the shadows they cast remained, giving him an ominous quality.

  “Lourdes.”

  She forced herself to breathe. “Hello, Juan.”

  He stepped out onto the porch. She hoped he would invite her in, but he seemed determined to keep a physical distance between them, to stop her from entering his temporary home, from allowing her perfume to linger in the place where he slept. She knew their attraction caused him distress.

  The same distress it caused her. Yet she still wanted to be near him, to touch him, to be part of his life.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  Why indeed? The ever-present cross shimmered against his shirt. She suspected he never removed it, not even when he showered.

  Lourdes lifted the manila envelope. “Paige made this for you. She asked me to bring it by.”

  He took the envelope and opened it.

  As he studied the drawing beneath the porch light, the lines around his mouth softened, and he pressed the picture against his chest.

  Against his heart, Lourdes noticed. Against the cross.

  She could see the emotion in his eyes, the tenderness her daughter had touched.

  “May I come by in the morning to thank her?” he asked.

  “Of course, you can. And you’re welcome to stay for breakfast. Nothing has changed.” He had a standing invitation for every meal, but she knew he didn’t feel as if he belonged at her table anymore. “My family adores you, Juan.”

  “I adore them, too.” He slipped the drawing back into the envelope, protecting it carefully. “I’ll hang it on my wall.”

  Lourdes smiled. “Paige will be thrilled.”

  He smiled, as well.

  But a moment later, their smiles faded, and they stood awkwardly on the weather-beaten porch.

  She moved toward the steps, encouraging Juan to sit beside her. The space on the stairway was tight, so he shifted closer to the rail.

  “I’m sorry I took advantage of you,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, too. For making you uncomfortable today.”

  “I had it coming. I deserved it.”

  Lourdes sighed. The night air offered a soothing temperature, cool and sweetly scented. She could see the outline of the barn, the corrals in the distance. “I didn’t mean to drive you away, Juan. It wasn’t deliberate.”

  He turned to look at her. “I know. But something is happening, and I’m not sure how safe it is. For either of us.”

  Lourdes held his gaze. She didn’t need to ask him to expound. He spoke of their attraction, of the sexual awareness between them.

  “I want to be near you,” she told him. She couldn’t bear to lose the connection they shared—the friendship, the heat, the emotion.

  The cross.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I want that, too. It was all I could do tonight to stay away, to not see you. To not spend time with your family.”

  Because you’re part of us, she thought. “Juan, there’s something I need to tell you. About the necklace you wear.”

  He made a puzzled expression. “I don’t understand.”

  Neither did she. But somehow she had t
o explain. “That cross used to belong to me. I inherited it from my mother, but Gunther pawned it, along with some of my other jewelry.” She paused. “By the time I found what he’d done, it was too late to get it back. The pawnshop had already sold it.”

  Juan flinched. How could this be? How was this possible? “What pawnshop? Where’s it located?”

  “In Laredo. It’s called Jack’s Gems and Loan. Does it ring a bell?”

  “No.” He reached for the religious symbol, the only possession that hadn’t been stolen from him, and closed his hand over it. “Are you certain this is the same necklace?”

  “Yes. The design is identical to the one I owned. And the inscription on the back is the same, too.”

  To keep you safe. Juan knew those words well. He’d assumed they’d been inscribed for him, that the cross had been given to him. By someone who’d loved him. Someone who’d cared.

  “There’s a tiny chip in the silver, near the inscription.” Lourdes pointed out. “It’s the same necklace.”

  He didn’t know what to do, what to say. So he merely stared at her, stunned and confused.

  “Do you remember how you acquired the necklace?” she asked.

  He shook his head. Suddenly his heart ached. The cross wasn’t his. Someone hadn’t inscribed those tender, loving words for him.

  They belonged to Lourdes.

  He removed the necklace and handed it to her. “I’m sorry Gunther stole it from you.”

  Her eyes misted. “Cáco thinks this is why you’re here, Juan. Why you ended up at my farm.”

  “Because I was meant to return your cross?”

  “Yes.” She clutched the heirloom, fisting the silver against her chest. “But she also thinks we were meant to help you. To be here when you needed us.”

  Was it true? Were they destined to meet? To be part of each other’s lives? “This is so—”

  “Overwhelming?”

  He nodded. “Is that why you didn’t tell me sooner? Did it confuse you?”

  “Yes. And it still does.”

  Juan understood. The connection confused him, too. The bond that couldn’t be explained.

  “Tell me more about the cross.” Everything, he thought. Every detail. He wanted to know the history behind it. The memories that meant so much to her.

  “First I’ll have to tell you about my mother. About why she named me Lourdes.”

  Yes, Lourdes, he thought. His dream girl with the father from France.

  He moved a little closer, waiting for her to continue.

  “My mother’s name was Gloria. She was beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, gentle and poetic. A quiet Catholic girl who believed in miracles.”

  He tried to picture Gloria, to see her in his mind, to know her in some way.

  “She was fascinated with the grotto in Lourdes, France. With the healing waters in the spring.”

  Juan nodded. He knew the Virgin Mary had appeared to a young girl named Bernadette at the grotto in 1858, telling her to drink and wash in the water. Although there was only a small amount of muddy water to begin with, little by little, a clear spring came forth.

  “Did you know there are two exact replicas of the grotto here?” Lourdes asked.

  “Really? In this area?”

  “They’re not in Mission Creek, but they’re a drivable distance, a weekend trip. One is north of here, in San Antonio. And the other is south, in Rio Grande City. My mother used to frequent them both.”

  Juan wondered if he’d been to the Texas shrines, if that was how he’d acquired detailed knowledge about St. Bernadette.

  Maybe, he thought. Or maybe he’d seen a movie about her, a Hollywood version that remained in his mind.

  “Eventually my mother went on a pilgrimage to France to see the real grotto.”

  “Is that how she met your father?”

  She nodded. “He was a young artist from Lourdes. They had a romantic affair, and on the day she left, he gave her the cross he always wore. But he’d engraved it for her, with a special inscription.”

  “To keep you safe,” Juan said.

  “Yes. The words were in English, meant for her journey home.”

  And now he knew, he thought. He knew the history, the beauty behind those words. “Did your mother ever see your father again?”

  “No. They kept in touch by letters and by phone, but a month later, he was killed in a fire. She never got the chance to tell him she was pregnant. She didn’t know she was carrying me until after he died.”

  “I’m sorry, Lourdes.”

  Tears misted her eyes. “Me, too. I wish I could have known him.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Louis. He was tall and blond. Poetic like my mother. She never got over him.”

  Juan imagined them—Gloria and Louis—young and passionate, conceiving a child in Louis’s hometown, a city that had always lived in Gloria’s heart.

  “I can see why she named you Lourdes.”

  “She died when I was ten. She went back to France to visit my father’s grave. I wanted to go with her, but she told me I had to stay home with my grandpa. That this was something she needed to do alone.”

  “Did she die in France?”

  “Yes. The train she was on derailed.”

  He glanced at the necklace still clutched in Lourdes’s hand. “She didn’t bring the cross with her, did she?”

  “No. She left it with me. To keep me safe while she was gone.”

  Juan resisted the urge to take Lourdes in his arms and comfort her. “I’d like to see the replicas of the grotto. Maybe we could go to both of them, the way your mother used to.” He paused, took a breath. He wanted to visit the Texas shrines, to see if they seemed familiar, if he’d been to either location before. “We could bring the kids. Say a rosary for your parents.”

  She gave him a small smile. “A rosary? You must be Catholic, Juan.”

  He sat for a moment. And then a memory, a piece of his past swirled around him like a ghost. “Yes, I am.”

  He used to go to confession, recite his sins and accept his penance. He could see himself kneeling at the altar, bowing his head in prayer.

  And then an image of a church filled his head. A priest saying a special mass. People in dark clothes and solemn expressions.

  A casket. A funeral.

  His sister’s? His mother’s?

  Dear God. His mother was dead, too.

  “She’s gone,” he said.

  Lourdes blinked. “What?”

  “My mother. I can’t recall her face or remember her name, but I know she’s dead.” He could feel the pain, the loss, the tears he’d cried. “Do you think everyone in my family is dead?”

  “Oh, Juan.”

  She leaned into him, and he put his arms around her, bringing her close.

  So close.

  They held each other, gently, quietly. And when she lifted her head to look at him, he kissed her.

  She tasted sweet and sensual, as incredible as he’d imagined, as delicate as his dream girl, as potent as the woman she truly was.

  Her lips parted beneath his, and he deepened the kiss. Just a little, just enough to make her sigh.

  He could feel the cross in her hand, pressed between their bodies as she clutched his shirt.

  His heart pounded against hers, like a raptor beating its wings.

  He took her tongue, and she took his. Warm and inviting. Heaven on earth. His angel. His Lourdes.

  “Juan.” She breathed his name, the name she’d given him.

  He drew back to savor the moment, to touch her cheek, to brand her image into his mind. “I want to remember you, just like this.”

  “Me, too.” She wet her lips, as if still tasting his kiss.

  A star winked in the sky, and he knew this was the first time he’d felt this attached, this complete with a woman.

  “Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” He motioned to the door. “Here. At the bunkhouse.”

  “Just the two o
f us?”

  He nodded, realizing he’d just asked her on a date. “A candlelit meal, a little wine, some quiet conversation.”

  She smiled. “That sounds nice.”

  He smiled, too. Then they stared at each other, at a sudden loss for words.

  A light breeze blew, teasing her hair. She looked mysterious in the moonlight, with her exotic-shaped eyes and long, sweeping lashes.

  “I better go,” she said finally. “It’s getting late.”

  He walked her to the burgundy-colored pickup truck she always drove. She set the necklace on the bench seat beside her.

  “Aren’t you going to wear it?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ve never worn it. I’ve always stored it in my jewelry box. Locked it away for safekeeping.”

  Juan merely nodded. He couldn’t help but wonder how he’d come by the cross and why he’d chosen to wear it.

  Had he purchased it from the pawnshop in Laredo?

  He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember ever being in Laredo. But Mission Creek didn’t seem familiar either.

  “Thank you for returning my necklace, Juan.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Lourdes started the engine, and he stood beneath a starry sky, watching her vehicle disappear.

  When the taillights faded into the dark, he went back to the porch and picked up the picture Paige had made for him.

  He glanced around, at the shadow of mesquite trees in the distance, at the quarter moon drifting above, at the simple beauty of a South Texas night.

  No, Mission Creek didn’t seem familiar, but suddenly it felt like home. A place where he belonged.

  Morning peeked through the blinds, and the aroma of fresh-perked coffee wafted through the house, reminding Lourdes that a boost of caffeine was only moments away.

  She sat at an oak vanity and braided the back of her hair, struggling to make herself presentable. She’d barely slept, barely closed her eyes.

  Because of Juan.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about him, reliving their kiss, tasting him over and over in her mind.

  Would he kiss her again tonight?

  She stared at her reflection, wishing she were more experienced, that she dated more often. As it was, she kept herself holed up at the ranch, shying away from social activities.