The Heart of a Stranger

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  Then again, she worked seven days a week. And the few precious hours she had free, she spent with her kids.

  But that didn’t ease her nerves—the girlish flutter that winged through her system whenever she thought about Juan.

  “Mama!” The door opened and her daughters burst into the room. Nina led the breathless invasion, with Paige fast on her heels.

  “Guess what? Juan is here. And look what he made for Paige’s picture.” The older twin motioned to the item Paige held, an exquisitely crafted frame with images carved into the wood. “It has stars on it. Just like her drawing.”

  Lourdes’s heart bumped her chest. She suspected he’d stayed up a good portion of the night, using scrap lumber and tools stored in the barn to make the frame.

  “Isn’t it pretty, Mama?” This from Paige, who beamed like the smiling sun in her picture.

  “Yes, it is.” So pretty, she wanted to cry.

  “Know what Juan’s doing right now?” Nina asked, without giving her mother a chance to respond. “He’s writing down stuff for Cáco to get at the store. He’s cooking dinner for you tonight, with dessert and everything.” The child skipped excitedly. “Cáco’s never even heard of what he’s gonna make. And Amy thinks it’s really neat that he knows how to cook all this weird stuff.”

  “Oh, my.” Lourdes’s heart bumped her chest. Somehow the actual meal hadn’t crossed her mind. She hadn’t considered him preparing special dishes. Nor had she envisioned her entire family getting involved.

  “Hurry up, Mama, so you see what Cáco’s supposed to buy with the money Juan gave her.”

  His first wage, Lourdes realized. The pittance he’d earned for working double shifts of his own free will, for taking on more than his job entailed. Already he’d insisted on making payments on the clothes she’d purchased for him, and now he was spending the rest on a dinner date.

  She followed her children into the dining room. Juan sat, pen and paper in hand, a cup of coffee at his elbow. The table was set for breakfast, and he was dressed for work.

  Amy sat next to him, and Cáco leaned over his shoulder, fussing like a hen. He appeared to be explaining a recipe to her.

  He looked up, and Lourdes’s pulse skipped like a stone, skirting through her veins in shivery little ripples.

  “I heard you’re working on a grocery list,” she said, hoping she sounded more casual than she felt.

  He nodded and smiled, and she knew he was thinking about their kiss. That sweet, slow kiss.

  “I’m making gnocchi tonight,” he said. “And cranberry-almond biscotti.”

  Lourdes wasn’t familiar with those dishes. She glanced at Cáco, and the old woman ruffled Juan’s hair. “He’s Italian.”

  “Sono Italiano,” he confirmed in a dramatic accent, using his hands for effect. “Sicilian.”

  “You are?” Lourdes could only stare. “Since when? I mean, when did you remember?”

  “Today, when I started planning the menu. Gnocchi is a potato dumpling, and biscotti are my favorite cookies. I figured I’d throw an antipasto in there, too.”

  Lourdes wanted to touch him, to brush her cheek against his. “Your memory is getting stronger. You’re recalling more and more each day.”

  “Yeah.” He laughed a little. “But only an Italian boy would equate his heritage with food.”

  She laughed, too. “Do you like to cook?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not a chef, but I make a pretty good red sauce. I’ve got the meatball thing wired, too.”

  She tried to picture him growing up in a Sicilian family. “I should have named you Sonny or Mario or something like that.”

  He grinned. “Juan will do, bella donna.”

  Her pulse went crazy again. Bella donna. “Beautiful woman.” That much Italian she knew.

  “Do you want to come by the bunkhouse a little early tonight?” he asked. “You can help me make the gnocchi.”

  “Okay.” They stared longingly at each other, and then she realized her family was watching her and Juan flirt.

  Embarrassed, she smoothed her braid and excused herself to go get a cup of coffee.

  Alone in the kitchen, she leaned against the counter, anxious for the day to end, simply so the evening could begin.

  Seven

  The kitchen in the bunkhouse was small, with stingy counter space, but Juan didn’t mind. The cozy atmosphere only heightened the moment.

  The familiar aroma of garlic and oregano danced in the air, and tomato sauce, laden with meatballs, simmered on the stove.

  He’d already made the biscotti, the crunchy cookies from his youth, and stored them in a covered container. An antipasto, a small platter of olives, pepper-ocinis, salami and mozzarella cheese, was available now.

  Antipasto meant “before the main course,” so Juan figured he and Lourdes could pick at it while they sipped wine and made the gnocchi.

  He turned to smile at her. She looked soft and feminine in a ruffled blouse and denim skirt. Her hair was twisted loosely on top of her head, with pieces falling around her face. A few playful tugs, he thought, a few stolen pins, and it would all come tumbling down.

  “Don’t drink too much,” he told her. “This cheap Chianti will get you drunk.”

  She laughed and bumped his shoulder. “Then quit topping my glass, Juan.”

  He capped the bottle. He wanted her sober when he kissed her, when he circled her in his arms. This wasn’t a seduction, a ploy to get her into bed, but he longed to kiss her again.

  Just one more time.

  She glanced at the counter, at the boiled and chilled potatoes he’d run through a food processor. “Tell me what to do.”

  “We’re going to make a dough.” He did his damnedest to concentrate, to focus on the food. “Like this.” He added flour, grated cheese, dried oregano, basil and salt to the potatoes.

  They mixed it with their hands, and he explained how the consistency should feel. “Slightly sticky, but smooth.”

  She helped him divide the dough into six sections. From there they rolled each section into one-inch-thick cords and sliced off small pieces, making the dumplings.

  Juan moved closer. Lourdes had a little flour on the front of her blouse, and he imagined dusting her off, brushing his hands over her breasts.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “We boil them until they float to the top.”

  Together, they remained in the kitchen, nibbling meat and cheese from the antipasto and watching the dumplings pop to the surface.

  A short time later, they sat across from each other at the table. She glanced down, noticed her blouse, dusted herself off and placed a napkin on her lap.

  He watched her taste the gnocchi. “What do you think?”

  “It’s wonderful.” She cut into a meatball and took a bite. “You’re an amazing cook. Better than you claimed to be.”

  He dipped bread into his sauce. “This food reminds me of home. Of my mother and sister, I guess.”

  “Are you starting to remember more about them? What they looked like?”

  “Sort of. At least I do with my sister. I’m pretty sure she had brown hair.”

  Brown hair when she died, he thought. And blond when she came back to life.

  Came back to life?

  What in the hell did that mean?

  Juan frowned. He must be transposing her image, confusing her with a blonde who was still alive.

  Lourdes took another bite. “I wonder how long it will be before you remember your name.”

  He shifted in his chair. The knowledge that his memory was coming back, that it was only a matter of time before he left the ranch made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t ready to return to his old life, to the graves of the people he’d loved.

  He shrugged and changed the subject, offering Lourdes a second helping.

  After they finished their meal, he refused to let her clear the dishes or tidy up the kitchen.

  “I’ll deal with it later,” he told her.


  She glanced at the mess on the counter, at the sauce spills on the stove, the plates on the table. “Spoken like a true bachelor.”

  A bachelor who wanted to make her his woman, he thought.

  When a stream of silence stretched between them, he turned on the radio and found a country station that played vintage tunes.

  She sat on the sofa and looked up at him. He gazed back at her, wondering if they were meant to be. If he was playing with fire. If they would both end up getting burned.

  “May I try one of the cookies you made?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He forced a smile and headed for the kitchen.

  Why did he fear that he would lose her once he resumed his true identity? That there was a dark cloud hovering over his head?

  Telling himself to relax, to enjoy the evening, he brought the biscotti into the living room.

  “They look more like hard toast than cookies,” she observed.

  “Here.” He dipped one into her wine and raised it to her mouth. “This is how I was taught to eat them.”

  She chewed, swallowed and made a sound of appreciation.

  He watched her. “You like?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  They took turns feeding each other, dunking biscotti into her wine, smiling in between flirtatious bites.

  She licked her lips, and he leaned into her.

  “Dance with me, Lourdes. Let me hold you.”

  As they swayed to the music, Juan imagined nights like this for the rest of his life.

  Patsy Cline’s voice crooned on the radio, wrapping him in a ’60s melody. Lourdes put her head on his shoulder, and he stroked her back, running his fingers up and down her spine.

  Crazy, he thought, repeating the lyrics in his mind. Was he crazy? Longing for something that wasn’t meant to be?

  The song ended, and she looked up at him. The DJ started talking, but Juan drowned out his voice. There was nothing but Lourdes, nothing but this moment.

  “You’re wearing the cologne I gave you,” she said.

  He nodded. “I like it. It reminds me of you. Of how you make me feel.”

  She smiled, and he lifted his hand and stole the pins from her hair.

  The honey-streaked mass tumbled free, like a sleek and silky waterfall.

  Needing more, he bent his knees, cupped her bottom and pulled her closer.

  As their mouths came together, his vision blurred. He closed his eyes and rubbed against her. She pressed back, letting him know she felt the hardness beneath his zipper.

  That was all it took.

  The kiss turned feral, a battle of tongues and teeth, of pulse against pressure, of heat against fire.

  She tasted like the wine they’d drunk, like the bloodred Chianti flowing through their veins.

  He drew back to lick her bottom lip, and she made a hungry sound and sucked his tongue into her mouth.

  The kiss turned desperate again.

  Hot and hammered and crazy.

  Crazy, like the song.

  Suddenly they stopped to gulp air, to gaze at each other.

  “I wish you could stay,” he said.

  Her breath hitched. “Me, too.” She glanced at the sofa bed. “But I can’t. I shouldn’t.”

  “I know.” He stepped back, realizing how dangerous this was. “I’m not asking you to, Lourdes.”

  She blinked. “You’re not?”

  He shook his head. “Even if we agreed to be together, I don’t have any protection. I’m not prepared.”

  She fidgeted with the ruffles on her blouse, and he saw the silhouette of her bra, the aroused tips of her breasts pressing against the fabric.

  “I’m not prepared either,” she said. “I don’t keep condoms around. I don’t have affairs. I’m just not that casual about sex.”

  “I am.” Juan shifted his feet. “Or I used to be.”

  “Used to be?”

  “Before this. Before us. I still can’t recall the last time I made love, but I know I wasn’t attached to my partner. Not emotionally, the way I am with you.”

  She worried her lip. “I’m afraid of what will happen when you’re gone. When you return to your old life.”

  “I’m afraid of that, too.” So afraid he would lose her.

  She crossed her hands over her blouse, shielding the outline of her distended nipples. “Then I should go home, and we should stop thinking about this. About each other.”

  Her hair still fell in disarray, he noticed, and her lips were swollen from his kiss. “Yes,” he agreed. “We should stop thinking about each other.”

  But even as he walked her to the door, as they fumbled through a platonic hug, he knew he wouldn’t stop thinking about her.

  Not tonight. And heaven help him, maybe not ever.

  Lourdes went home, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Juan.

  Three hours later, she sat on a velvet stool, still dressed in the clothes she’d worn to his house, gazing at her reflection in the vanity mirror.

  She wanted him. And he wanted her.

  Anxious, she let out the breath she’d been holding. How could she face each day without touching him? Without knowing how it felt to lie naked with him?

  She couldn’t. By God, she couldn’t.

  Then go to him, she told herself. Be with him. Make it happen.

  Knowing she had to stop by the all-night convenience store for a box of condoms, she grabbed her purse, checked on her sleeping children and left Cáco a note.

  Don’t worry about me. I’ll be home in time for breakfast.

  Or sooner, she feared, if Juan turned her away. If he decided their relationship was too complicated for sex.

  She drove along the deserted highway, fretting her fool head off. Of course their relationship was too complicated for sex. They’d both admitted they were afraid of what the future might bring. Afraid of what would happen once Juan returned to his old life.

  Yet Lourdes couldn’t stop the want, the need to hold him in her arms, to feel him moving between her legs.

  The newly-built convenience store, which offered overpriced necessities and junk food, sat on a lone corner, right before the edge of town.

  She parked her truck and went inside. At 12:00 a.m., she was the only customer milling up and down the short aisles.

  She found the prophylactics and glanced at the clerk, a young man who looked casually alert on this quiet Tuesday morning.

  Feeling shy, she added a carton of milk, two candy bars, a package of breath mints and a box of tissues to her purchase, hoping the condoms wouldn’t stand out like a neon sign.

  The clerk rang up her order without raising a brow, and she breathed a sigh of relief, wondering how many other desperate-for-sex women had showed up at midnight trying to camouflage their craving with unnecessary items.

  On her way out the door, another convenience-store patron arrived, a trucker who nodded and smiled.

  She returned the friendly gesture and headed back to the ranch, her heart pounding with anticipation.

  Parked in front of the bunkhouse, she dug through the bag and removed everything but the condoms. The milk, she realized, was a dumb thing to buy. It needed to be refrigerated, and she wasn’t about to present Juan with a box of Trojans and a quart of milk.

  He’d think she was nuts.

  Maybe she was, she decided, as she poured the milk on the ground so it wouldn’t spoil in her truck.

  Next she opened the breath mints, popped one in her mouth and waited until it dissolved.

  By the time she knocked on Juan’s door, her hands were shaking.

  He answered with a worried expression, and she lost her voice. He stood before her in no shoes, no shirt and a pair of jeans, the zipper hastily fastened, the top button undone.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “Is one of the horses sick?”

  “No. Everything is fine.” She clutched the brown paper bag, wondering how to go about this. When he stepped away from the door, she entered his house and saw th
e unmade bed. “I’m sorry I got you up at this hour.”

  “I wasn’t asleep. Are you sure everything is okay?”

  She glanced at his stomach, at the line of hair below his navel. She wanted to sketch it with her finger, trace it down into his pants.

  “Lourdes?”

  She looked up. “I couldn’t stop thinking about us, Juan.”

  “Really?” He moved closer. “Me, too. That’s why I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t get you off my mind.”

  With her courage bolstered, she handed him the bag.

  He peered inside, then lifted his gaze. His eyes all but sparkled, bright and alive with emotion.

  He touched her cheek, his callused fingers rough against her skin. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t have any regrets later on? Worries about the future? About what happens after I regain my memory?”

  Yes, she had fears, so many fears. But for now, she needed him. “You’re worth the risk.”

  He drew her into his arms, and for the longest time, they simply held each other.

  “We’ll figure something out,” he said. “No matter who I am or where I’m from, we’ll make it work.”

  She buried her face against his neck and inhaled his scent. “Is that a commitment, Juan?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “It is.”

  Her heart made a girlish leap and she clung to him, desperate to keep him close. Could it be this easy? Could they stay together, no matter what?

  He opened the condom box and shoved a foil packet into his front pocket. Next he reached for her blouse, and she watched him undo the buttons.

  This was more than foreplay, she thought. More than a physical need.

  Lourdes leaned forward to kiss him, to taste his mouth, his tongue, the hunger churning through his blood.

  “Do you know how incredible this is?” he asked. “I’ve had so many fantasies about you. And here you are, offering yourself to me.”

  She unhooked her bra, and he rubbed his thumbs over her nipples. “Tell me about your fantasies, Juan.”

  He unzipped her skirt and pushed the denim fabric down her hips. “I want to make you come, Lourdes. I want to lick between your legs and make you come.”

  Oh, my. The air in her lungs whooshed out, and she glanced away to keep herself from blushing. His hands were everywhere, gliding over her breasts and the sheer-colored panty hose she wore, following the contours of her body.