“Sure ’nough.” The sheriff picked up his hat. “Chestnut, eh?”
“Yep. Coat about the same color as Molly’s hair.”
They were clumping their way down the hall when William said, “Jim.”
“Ahuh.”
“Jim, just a word of advice. Better not say that in front of Molly.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The noontime meal, eaten about 1:00, proved to be much more relaxing and entertaining than last night’s stilted, uncomfortable supper. Playing host for three extra guests, to share in conversation, warmed James’ lonely heart; being served cuisine that lay lightly and easily on the stomach sweetened Emma’s tenuous mood.
When Molly murmured something about once again complimenting the cook, Emma actually agreed.
“Mostly edible,” she approved. “A salad, a nice fresh chicken salad. And that other thing—Kay—Kay—Kay what, James, dear?”
“Quesadillas,” he answered from the head of the table. “With avocado. Liked that, didja?”
“I did, indeed.” She smiled her prettiest smile from the foot of the table and swished her lovely bare shoulders a little.
“And rice pudding, for dessert,” added Molly.
The Southerner’s rich dark eyes met hers, and for a moment they might have been alone in the room. “Your doin’?”
She shrugged. Her shoulders were not bare, but arrayed in the gauzy folds of full, loose cream-colored sleeves. Just as attractive. Just as enticing. “A suggestion, here or there.”
“Well, this has certainly been delicious,” said Frances with what was, for her, lavish praise. “Quite a change from our usual fare. Thanks, all of you.”
“You’re entirely welcome, I’m sure.” Emma gathered her full pin-striped skirts off to the side and gracefully rose. “Ladies, whynchall join me in the parlor, where we can sit and gossip a spell? James, dear, perhaps Will would like t’ try out one o’ your fav’rite cigars, and maybe some o’ that bourbon you got put aside.”
It was after they had gotten settled into upholstered chairs and a Bentwood rocker that the visitors brought out their housewarming gifts.
“A bit premature, it’s true,” said Sarah. “And we haven’t heard any more from you about the actual wedding date. But we wanted you to have the use of these things now.”
First was a fine woven basket filled with Mason jars. Glistening, gleaming colors of red jam and purple jelly, orangey tomatoes, golden corn relish, dark brown mincemeat.
“That’s from Star and her mother,” Frances explained. “Adsila made the basket—perfect size to use for a picnic one of these days, don’t you think? Star really wanted to come along with us, but she’s so near her time that Matt refused to let her travel this far from home. He was afraid the buckboard would shake that baby right out of her.”
Emma made a slight grimace of distaste for such a lack of discretion. Surely a subject so delicate should not be bantered about in public? “Oh, very thoughtful of them,” she murmured. “I look forward to tastin’ all that wonderful stuff. Mincemeat, you said?”
“Oh, yes, and it makes delicious pies,” Sarah assured her. “Now, this one is from me.”
Out of the butcher paper wrapping emerged a beautiful hand-pieced quilt in an array of colors and designs. Oohing and aahing, Emma held it open so everyone could see and admire.
“Now, I didn’t have much to draw on from James; after all, what man keeps old fabric lying around? But I did take part of his CSA uniform, where it was worn to bits. See, there, the gray and the gold. And Matt discovered that a couple of his mother’s dresses still resided in a trunk, so he let me use those. It’s always nicer when you can sew some memories together, don’t you think?” Sarah was beaming with satisfaction for her superlative handiwork.
Gently Molly smoothed her hand across a corner. In her eyes had gathered a hard-to-come-by tear, in her throat a hard lump. “Imagine that, all these years after their mother died, still having some of her garments. This is stunning, Sadie. Simply—stunning…”
“As soon as James told us he’d asked you to come west and marry him,” Frances turned to include Emma, “we started crafting whatever we could. We were that anxious to meet you, and get our boy settled.”
“How very nice of you.” Emma tactfully swallowed a yawn. “Truly, I didn’t expect gettin’ presents from anyone.”
The slight increase of weight in her middle had Sarah shifting for a more comfortable position. In her first trimester, she was already finding herself increasingly hungry, increasingly tired, and increasingly in need of any nearby privy. Which, undeniably, she must seek out soon.
“These are my gift to you.” Frances handed over another package, bulky and heavy.
Unwrapped, unrolled, the offering turned out to be two oval hand-hooked rag rugs, in a multitude of vivid colors. This, too, garnered a bevy of compliments and accolades. Molly wanted to know how these had been put together, and what supplies were needed; Sarah described how comfortable they were to stand on, in front of the sink.
In front of the sink? Emma raised an eyebrow. Catch her doing any such thing!
Eventually the talk turned to other matters, of happenings in town and countryside. Rustling from some of the smaller cattle ranches, farther south; gunshots fired and several bystanders wounded, and the perpetrators never caught, during a bank robbery; a lynching, over in one of the Sierra Nevada mining camps, after some dispute over a gold claim.
Emma, listening intently and nervously, shivered. “Why, I had no idea there was such lawlessness goin’ on in this region. How can you all stand to live here, in the midst of such danger?”
“Oh, my dear, there’s danger everywhere you go,” Sarah reminded her. “Especially for such a pretty young thing like yourself. You just make sure that Jim keeps good watch over you, and you come on into town as often as you can.”
Silence, while the girl digested all this. Less than enamored of this new life already—so much more rustic and uncomfortable than she had ever dreamed—the notion of leaving the ugly place behind completely was beginning to sound quite attractive. She must speak to James as soon as possible, urge him to give up this mad idea of existence at the back of beyond, and return to civilization. Preferably, that of Charleston.
Molly, meanwhile, was glancing from one Goddard lady to the other with a tinge of suspicion. Much as they might proclaim their liking for and their welcome to this delicate southern flower, it seemed that much more might be at stake. Were they deliberately embroidering their tales of mayhem and murder, in the hope of driving Miss Palmer away? But to what end, if marriage to Emma was what James really wanted?
Discourse faltered after that, and it wasn’t long before murmurs were set in motion about leaving. A hasty trip to use the indoor facilities that the former owner had thoughtfully had installed, the buckboard was hitched up once again, and the visitors made ready to depart, in late afternoon.
“We had a delightful time,” said Frances, as she was being helped up onto the high seat. “Thank you for allowing us to invade your home.”
Even Sarah, huffing and puffing a little while her husband lifted her in place like a sack of flour, got in her last few words of gratitude. Also, the reminder that a dressmaker had been engaged, for whenever James would bring Emma back to town for her consultation and a fitting.
There is always a bit of a letdown for those who remain behind when expected company takes their leave. Now, the cowboys returned to their duties. Rosa slipped away to help with clean-up chores throughout the house. Molly, feeling it was time the young couple finally had a chance to be alone, headed for the bedrooms, to begin unpacking, arranging, and storing all the items from Emma’s mountain of baggage.
Smiling, James took a few steps closer to his betrothed and slid one arm around her shoulders. Hmmph. From his height, he could actually look down into her cleavage, pushed up so temptingly by what he figured was a lace-trimmed corset. Prominent collarbones, nice smooth pect
oral wall, breasts…ah, yes, breasts…just the size to fit into a man’s hand. Goddamn, what tender morsels they must be!
He wondered what they looked like. He wondered about their color, their shape, their heft. He wondered how she’d react if he suddenly swooped down and grabbed that sweet flesh, to fondle and grope, in anticipation of their wedding night.
James could feel the determined stirring of his own flesh, responding to eloquent imagination.
He groaned aloud.
Confused, Emma moved carefully out of reach to glance up at him. “What is it, Jim? Is something wrong?”
“—Uh…no. Listen, Emma, let’s take a walk for a while.” He caught up both her hands in both of his, pleading, teasing. “We haven’t had a minute by ourselves, to talk over the future, to see where we wanna go in life. C’mon, honey, whaddya say?”
“Oh, Jim, I can’t right now.” She pulled free, looking like a flustered small child. “My nerves are all jangled from so much comp’ny today, and I need to find a nice quiet corner to myself, just to get back in order again. Maybe t’morrah, all right? You do understand, don’t you, James, dear?”
He understood that he’d gotten himself into one helluva mess, with no idea how to get out of it. What imp had possessed him, that sunlit day in Charleston, to beg for her hand in marriage, when they were complete strangers to each other? Was it the relief of survival, the temporary comfort of homecoming, the elation of future prospects? What on earth had convinced him that this pampered princess might ever make a helpmate, a partner, a wife?
“Sure, Emma. Sure, tomorrah will be fine. You go find that corner. I got some chores t’ tend to, anyway.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“You are sad, Señorita?”
Emma glanced up from her morose contemplation of the concrete fountain, inlaid with bits of mosaic tile and shiny silver-colored tin. She had chosen one of the benches nearby, reached by irregular stepping stones and set in plantings of aloe vera and rosemary, to partake of late afternoon’s lengthening shadows.
“Hello, Rosa. Sad? No. Not sad, really. Just sorta—discombobulated…”
Rosa approached. She was a helpful, pretty girl, with the long straight black hair and olive skin common to her people and, at certain times, in certain moods, an air of slyness that few noticed. “This discom—discom—I do not know this word.”
A laugh as light and tinkling as the splash of water from fountain top to bowl. “Oh, just all kinda messed up inside, not sure of anything.”
“Ah.” A nod of understanding, woman to woman. “Confundida. A man, then. Is Señor James?”
“James. Yes, o’ course it’s James, there ain’t nobody else around here t’ tangle me up in knots.”
Curious, the girl came closer, taking a seat on one of the black-veined boulders scattered about, and spread her skirts around her. “You love him too much?”
With a sigh, Emma leaned forward, propped both elbows on her thighs in a very unladylike pose, and rested her chin on cupped palms. “Hush, Rosa, don’t say anything, but—well, I don’t think I love him at all!”
“Ah, well. Many marriages are made without attachment on either side. Sometimes they work,” she shrugged, “sometimes they don’ work.”
From time immemorial, great ladies have been confiding in their maids. While not exactly a great lady, Emma Palmer was no different from those others. For some reason, she could say things to Rosa that she hadn’t been able to say to Molly.
Especially about James, her betrothed. A girl should feel some special affection for her betrothed, shouldn’t she? A girl should feel more than fatigue or distaste for his very presence, shouldn’t she? She didn’t want him touching her. Or cuddling her. Or showing possessiveness, or passion. Especially passion…
“Rosa?”
“Yes, Señorita?”
“Rosa, do you—uh—well, has anyone told you anything—I mean, when a man and a woman are—uh—well, together…”
“To make love, you mean? No one has explained how this works? Ah, no wonder you are so confundida.” Delighted to feel superior in at least one aspect of their gentlewoman/servant relationship, this hot-blooded, tempestuous child of her race began to describe just what goes on behind a closed bedroom door.
Horrified, entranced, incredulous all at once, Emma listened with eyes wide and a deep blush seeping upward from throat to chin to cheeks. “But—that can’t be!” she whispered at one point, appalled. “I can’t imagine how—I could never bear t’ have—why, the hurt alone—oh, Rosa!”
“Is true.” Rosa nodded sagely. “Can be fun, you know, with the right man. Can feel—ooooh, so good. But wrong man? Uh-uh. You think Señor James is wrong man?”
Emma sat twisting her grandmother’s pearl ring on one finger. Around and around, while she stared off into space. Tears, her last resort, welled up and overflowed. “I’m thinkin’ that he is.”
“You should meet my brother,” the girl said suddenly, apropos of nothing. “Very fine man. Very handsome, is Benito. You would like. Maybe I bring here, yes?”
“Bring here? Why on earth would you be bringin’ him here? Mercy sakes, Rosa, I got me enough trouble dealin’ with one man in my life, I don’t wanna deal with another one.”
Dusk was moving in, softening sharp edges, adding pale purple clouds and starry pinpricks to the sky, enticing the doves to coo and call.
Rosa sprang to her feet. “I must go now, Señorita, to help in the kitchen. You think on this, let me know. Benito can be here soon.”
As she dashed away, Emma rose stiffly and looked around. “But they’re all just a peck o’ trouble,” she repeated forlornly. “And I don’t wanna deal with another one.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“You have seen her, yes?” hissed Rosa, from her position in the shadowy, darkened doorway that led to servants’ quarters. “She is very pretty, very lonely. And she has money.”
“Ha. How do you know she has money?”
“Idiot. She told me so. Much money, from when her parents died, and more when her aunt goes on to meet with the good God above. Think what you could do with all that money.”
“But she is betrothed, is she not? To the master.”
“Phah! He is not the one she wants. He is not the one she needs.”
“Rosa. You are only a maid. What do you know of who she wants or needs?”
“We chat, little brother. She tells me many things. Miss Emma, she don’ want Señor James. But I do! So first you must make sweet talk with her, get her to trust you and depend on you. After that you should take her to bed, teach her how to be a woman, and ruin her reputation. By then she will be ready to run away, escape all the gossip. With her gone, Señor James will be free. He will be mine.”
“You are cold-hearted, Rosa, to try to destroy this poor girl. Do you hate her so much?”
“Hate her? No, I don’ hate her at all. I just want her out of my way. I don’ want no one to interfere with all I have planned.”
“Plans. You always bring forth these grand plans, Rosa. Which of them has ever come true?”
“You wait, Benito. See me, your smart sister, as mistress of this whole hacienda. We will know then which plan comes true!”
“That I will believe only when it happens.”
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow Señor James, he will be out working on the rancho, as he is all the time. You come to the inner courtyard, late morning, and she will be there, I promise. I leave it up to you, my handsome young brother, to take things from there!”
VI
The next day dawned clear and beautiful, with a slight breeze blowing in from the ocean to add salt tang to the air, and skies taking their color from the distant hills. Birdsong in the buckeyes awoke her; that, and the buzz of locusts through her terrace door.
“Oh. Rosa. Good mornin’. You’re here early.” Emma, still lounging under cool white embroidered sheets, turned sleepy eyes toward the window. “Or isn’t it early?”
&
nbsp; “It is, Miss Palmer. Lo siento—I did not mean to disturb you.” In point of fact, Rosa had intended to do just that. Time for Miss Lazybones to be up and out of bed, so matters could proceed as envisioned. “Last night Miss Buchanan asked me for help in arranging your things. So, here I am.”
“M’h’m. Here you are.” Emma yawned and pulled herself upright against the pillows. “Tell me, Rosa, is it my imagination, or is one week just like every other week in this place? I mean, my goodness, doncha all ever have rainstorms, or bad weather, just for variety?”
Chuckling, Rosa turned from the deep dark armoire in which she had been placing stacks of frilly underthings—petticoats, camisoles, crinolines, and the like. “Oh, sí, Señorita, bad weather, yes. But mainly in fall, the rains come then. Not much now. You have tire of sunshine?”
“Not tired, exactly. Bored. I think I’m ready for somethin’ excitin’ to happen, Rosa.” With another yawn, she stretched her arms wide, so that her girlish breasts stood up to point impudent little peaks through the nightgown. “S’pose I’d better get goin’ on my bath. Um. You didn’t happen t’ bring in a breakfast tray for me, didja?”
By mid-morning Emma was settled out in the courtyard, on yesterday’s bench, near yesterday’s shrubs and aromatic blooms, in yesterday’s welcome shade. Convinced by the maid that fresh air and flowers were exactly what she needed to chase away the doldrums, she had brought along her favorite lacy parasol and a book to read.
“Perdóneme, Señorita.”
A rich masculine voice intruded enough upon her melancholy thoughts for Emma to look up, shading her eyes against the brilliant sunshine. “Yes?”
With a charming smile, the man went down on one knee before her, lifted her free hand, and pressed a gentle kiss upon it. “Buenos Días, Señorita. I am Benito Alfaro, Rosa’s brother. She may have mentioned my name?”
“Why, yes. She did.” Except that, beyond mentioning the name, I asked her not to go any farther. “Was there somethin’ I can help you with, Mr. Alfaro?”
A Western Romance: James Yancey - Taking the High Road (Book 3) (Taking the High Road series) Page 6
