by Linda George
“It was Tom's idea. I helped pick it out.”
“Just when you think you have brothers figured out, they do something sweet to confuse you all over again.”
“This is like a dream, to me, Trina. I only hope I don't do something to embarrass Tom.”
“You couldn't possibly. Haven't you noticed the way he looks at you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. If you haven't noticed already, you will soon. Tom has never, shall we say, shown any real interest in a woman until he met you. I have to find him and thank him for the pram. We must take Hannah for a stroll later.”
Rosalie looked away, thrilled with what Trina had said. Tom was holding Hannah now. Their eyes caught and held across the room for an instant, and Rosalie wondered if what she felt for Tom showed in her eyes for everyone to see when she looked at him.
Rosalie reveled in the gracious hospitality of the Mallory home as guests arrived all during the afternoon. By the time they gathered around the long table in the dining room, which was set for sixteen places, Rosalie felt she'd stumbled into an incredible dream. With Tom sitting beside her on the left, and Trina on her right—an arrangement Trina had insisted on—Rosalie felt truly secure. For a short while, she forgot about Hell's Half Acre and the misery of daily life there. She also managed to forget about Zane Strickland and his terrible intentions toward her. But she couldn't forget that the dream would not last forever. Her life in the Acre awaited her, along with the Strickland home in Denver, an uncertain and possibly dangerous future. Telling all this, and Tom McCabe, good-bye might very well shatter her heart.
After a delicious dinner of roasted beef, potatoes in cream sauce, snapped beans from Marietta's garden, and peach pie for dessert, their hostess suggested a walk in the garden. Rosalie agreed it would be lovely this time of evening.
Although still warm from the oppressing heat of the day, Rosalie found the air soothing rather than stifling, fragrant rather than repulsive, a caress rather than an assault.
“Where do you live in Fort Worth, Rosalie? We've known people there for years. Perhaps some of your neighbors are our friends.”
What could she say? Lying went against everything Rosalie believed in. Would her answer reflect on Tom? She hedged a bit.
“We live in the southern part of Fort Worth. I have few neighbors.”
Marietta's brow wrinkled. “The southern part?”
Time for the truth. Eyes averted, she explained. “My father owns a business in the area known as the Acre. Our home is next door to that business.”
Marietta Mallory's expression surprised Rosalie. Not a trace of disapproval showed in her deep brown eyes.
“How long have you lived there?”
“Most of my life, I'm afraid.”
“Then I'm positive you're going to love Denver.”
“I know I shall.” She tried to smile, unwilling to reveal her fears.
“My dear, you'll pardon me when I say that you are one of the worst liars I've ever met.”
Eyes on the horizon, drinking in the beauty of the sunset, Rosalie nodded. “I never learned how.”
“So why don't you tell me what's troubling you?”
She shook her head. “You've been so kind. I cannot possibly consider inflicting you with my problems. Tom has promised to help me work out every difficulty. Truthfully, I have every hope Denver will be the city of my dreams.”
Marietta hugged Rosalie briefly and smiled. “Very well. It's obvious Tom cares a great deal for you. I'd like you to remember I'm here, if you need anything at all. Amos McCabe and his sons have been like family to us. Perhaps, in time, I hope you'll be part of that family, as well.”
Grateful for the lowering sun and the gathering shadows disguising her reaction to Marietta's words, Rosalie added, in a whisper, “Let it be so.”
What must it be like, she wondered, to live in a world with people such as those she'd met since meeting Tom? To sip real lemonade over ice, to eat delicious foods and host weekend parties?
Tom came outside, over to where they stood. Rosalie's heart jumped a little at the sight of him, bathed in the dusty orange glow of the waning sun. His smile warmed her trembling heart.
“Beautiful sunset.” He eased one arm around Rosalie's waist.
“The clouds really give God a pallet for his paints.” Marietta hugged both of them briefly. “I must check on my other guests. Tom, will you see that Rosalie doesn't get lonely, please?”
“My pleasure.”
Marietta went inside. Tom suggested they tour the rest of the garden, so they walked toward the sunset, admiring the orange and gold cast on the house and grounds.
“She's such a lovely person, Tom. I can't imagine anyone actually knowing such gracious people.”
“In Denver, we know a passel of them. I'll make sure you meet every last one.”
She felt a tingle when his fingers curled around hers, warm and slightly damp on her skin. Their hands fit together perfectly. Would their bodies, stripped of proper boundaries, also fit, as though sculpted by the same artist, meant to be together?
“There's that look in your eyes again,” Tom said quietly.
“What look is that?”
“The one that says you're thinking something deeply personal.”
She grinned. “What makes you say that?”
“Because I've learned, when I see that certain shine in your eyes, you won't tell me what you're thinking, even though I suspect I'm part of it. Makes me wonder.”
“No need to wonder any longer.” She swiveled until they stood face to face, inches away, her chin lifted, lips slightly apart.
Tom gathered her close, bent to meet her lips with his own, and proved to her, beyond a doubt, that their bodies were meant to fit together.
<><><><>
In her own room that evening, Rosalie slid between cool sheets covered with a quilt she had no doubt Marietta had made. How odd to need a quilt in the midst of summer, but in this house, she did.
A delicate breeze fluffed the curtains, then nudged her gently. Stars gleamed through the still night.
A dream. How could she make it last forever?
Her body burned with desire for Tom McCabe. What she'd felt for her first beaux didn't compare to these new feelings for Tom, deeper and more constant with each new day. Exquisite feelings. Yet, they brought her shame.
What did Sadie and Jocelyn and the others feel when they “entertained” cowboys in the back rooms for a dollar? How did they feel afterward? Was intimacy with strangers so wonderful that they would live a life of sin and scorn to do it over and over again?
Rosalie shuddered at the thought that she might be like them. Yearning for Tom's touch, for his kiss, his strong arms pulling her against him, she longed to know how would it be for their bodies to press tightly together, without clothing to separate and prevent them from exploring further.
Tears trickled down her cheek into the pillow.
Such desires must be sinful. Yet they continued to make themselves known, day and night, growing stronger by the hour, with every smile, every gesture, every kindness he showed her.
Kindness. Was she reacting only to his kindness and gentility? Or could it be something else? How could she know for sure?
<><><><>
Tom turned over for the fourth time. The feather bed felt comfortable enough, dammit, but he didn't need that quilt. The room had seemed cool enough when he'd first come in to bed, but now the whole place stifled him. He climbed out of the deep feather mattress and raised the window to its highest point.
Stars dotted the sky, reminding him of the gleam of tears in Rosalie's eyes when she learned Strickland intended to marry her. Tom had to stop it. But how? He couldn't let her marry Strickland. He couldn’t even allow her to live in the Strickland home! Yet the debt remained. Two thousand dollars. A fortune.
Tom lay back down on the wrinkled sheets, got up to straighten them, then lay down again.
Phil
lip might know a solution, but how could Tom approach him without sounding like he was asking for money? There had to be another way to handle this. Another way.
Rosalie.
Before meeting Rosalie, Tom's life had been orderly and predictable. Coming to Fort Worth to escort her to Denver had been a bothersome interruption to a daily routine he'd come to appreciate and love. After meeting her, knowing what she faced in Denver, how could his routine at home ever be satisfying again? He'd worry about her every minute, desperate to be there to protect her from Strickland's drunken rages.
Talking to Richard Strickland was out of the question. Meddling in their affairs. That's how he'd see it, and he'd be right.
But, dammit, Tom couldn't just sit back and do nothing!
He leaped from the bed again. Going...where? To Rosalie's room? Preposterous. Out of the question. Scandalous.
Yet he longed to hold her once more this evening, before she drifted into sleep. Would her dreams be happy ones? Would she dream about him? Would she dream about being with him?
Tightness in his loins warned him to think of something else, but he couldn't. Since he'd met her, she'd dominated his body, mind and soul. Only saving her from the misery her life had been, and from the hell her life would be, could bring him contentment.
Back to the window. Several deep breaths. He detected the fragrance of lilacs on the breeze. The fragrance of her.
Chapter 10
After breakfast the next morning, Marietta suggested that Tom take Rosalie riding. He didn't know how she'd feel about it, considering her distaste for her father's horses, but she seemed happy with the idea.
In the barn, Tom saddled a dapple-gray mare for Rosalie, then selected a pinto gelding for himself.
“Bo would love this horse.” He pulled the girth tight and secured the strap.
“Because he's pinto?”
“Yep. Bo has a horse a lot like this one. He calls him Scout.”
“Do we know their names?” She stroked the mare's neck and received a soft nicker as thanks.
“I didn't hear. Why don't you name them for today?”
“All right. You're riding Rembrandt.”
“The painter?”
“Fits him, don't you think?”
He grinned. “And are you riding Michelangelo?”
“No. Dotsy.”
Tom laughed. “That's perfect.”
Starting out slowly, to see what kind of rider Rosalie was, and to give the horses time to warm up, Tom chose to ride north, toward a copse of live oak trees on the far side of the clearing.
Rosalie rode the side-saddle with a look of consternation on her face.
“You've ridden before?”
“Never on one of these contraptions. It's no wonder ladies don't ride more than they do. I'll be crippled by the time we get back.”
“You ride astride, then?”
Her cheeks colored slightly. “I have. Does that tarnish your feelings for me?”
“Not one bit. I never could see how a woman could stand to have her leg crooked over that ridiculous horn, anyway.”
“Some men believe a woman who rides astride to be...wanton.”
Tom laughed at that. “Don't let it worry you. We'll stop to rest from time to time. We can't have you crippled, now, can we?”
Rosalie loved every minute of the ride. She found she'd missed being with horses since that day in June. But that was as far as she'd allow her thoughts to linger on that awful day. She wanted to enjoy this time with Tom to the absolute fullest.
They came upon a stream among the oaks, and Tom helped her down for a drink of sweet water and some rest.
“Delicious. How lucky they are, to have clear running water so close to home, even when it's as hot and dry as it has been this year.” Rosalie patted her face and neck with her wet hand, loving the coolness on her sun-warmed skin.
“The best I can remember, this stream can swell to five times this size. All this hot weather has reduced it to a trickle. If it doesn't rain soon, it'll probably dry up altogether.”
Rosalie searched the sky. “Cloudier than yesterday. Maybe they'll decide to scrunch up together and the pressure of their bodies will squeeze out some moisture.”
Tom's eyes told her the analogy she'd chosen had deeper meaning than she'd intended.
“Rosalie...”
If she kissed him, felt him against her, would she recognize the truth behind those feelings? Her body yearned for him so. How could she resist?
Tom sensed her hesitation. Up until now, she'd been quick to come to him. Too quick? Had she decided their intimacies weren't right somehow? With no one here to see or judge, as there had been in the Acre, what else could it be?
“Tell me what you're thinking.”
“I can't.”
“You have to.”
She turned away. Two quick steps, a hand on her shoulder, and he turned her to face him.
“Please, Rosalie. I have to know what's going on in your mind. Then I'll tell you what's in mine.”
She nodded. “I don't know that I can describe it, or explain. The feelings I have for you are strange and exhilarating to me. Such happiness can't be wrong, yet I fear...I can't allow...I would never...” She shook her head, unable to articulate what swirled in her mind.
“You're afraid what you're feeling makes you like the doves.”
After a moment's hesitation, she nodded, once.
“But that could never be. Don't you see what's happening?”
She raised her eyes, shook her head.
Should he speak for her? Try to explain? Or should she come to it on her own?
“The feelings you're having are normal. They don't depend on where you live or the people you've come to know. They're your feelings, and there's no need to apologize for them. Just let yourself feel.”
Could it be so simple? “Hold me, Tom.”
His arms made her feel safe. But what she felt went far beyond safe. When he kissed her this time, she let her emotions go completely. He'd clearly done the same.
His mouth on hers, his hands roaming over her arms and back, lent power and strength to what she'd been feeling. She couldn't hold him tightly enough, or be close enough. Their clothes presented an intolerable obstacle to the intimacy she craved.
Tom eased her down into the grass, still kissing, caressing, unable to get enough of her. He wanted her with all his being.
“Tom, we can't. We have to stop.”
“This is right, Rosalie. Can't you feel it?”
He kissed her words away. Before long, so clouded with love for him, she knew she wouldn't be able to stop herself. She suspected he was already approaching that crossroad.
She managed to get her hands on his chest to push him away. His ragged breathing slowed, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He rolled away to the ground and lay on his back with one arm across his eyes.
“I'm sorry, Rosalie. I'm sorry.”
“You mustn't be sorry, Tom. I'm the one who led you on.”
“No. I shouldn't have pressed you. Dammit, I know how you feel about this. About everyone thinking—”
Her throat constricted until she couldn’t speak.
He retreated to the stream to bathe his face.
She came and sat beside him, afraid to touch him, afraid to speak. He didn’t understand, because she hadn’t told him the truth about herself. Should she tell him? Considering any chance at all he might love her, would knowing what she’d done change his feelings for her? Could she risk losing him before they’d ever had a chance to find something special together?
“I wish I could tell you everything will work out fine, Rosalie. I wish you were free, so I could court you once you’re in Denver. Hell, I wish I could do a lot of things. But not now. Someday.”
“But Zane—”
“Don’t talk about him. Not here. He isn’t allowed here, not even in your thoughts. You have to trust me. I’ll get you free of him somehow.” He tipped her chin upward wit
h his fingers and kissed her sweetly. “I promise.”
<><><><>
Phillip Mallory was standing on the front porch when they returned from the ride.
“There's a wire here for you, Tom. Marked urgent.” He handed over the envelope.
Rosalie held her breath. An urgent telegram could mean only one thing. She waited, along with Mr. Mallory, for Tom's reaction.
He released a long breath.
“Not a death in the family, I hope, son.”
“No, Sir. Just some news my father wanted to pass along about that bull in Lubbock. He's changed his mind. We won’t be buying him after all.”
Phillip smiled broadly. “Glad it wasn't bad news. Marietta has dinner on the table if you're hungry.”
Tom nodded once, shortly, glanced at Rosalie, then away.
A hollow opened up in the pit of her stomach, more than hunger. She felt fearful apprehension for whatever the wire represented. That bull meant new life for the McCabe Ranch. Not buying the bull. What could it mean? Why had Amos McCabe changed his mind?
They went upstairs to change clothes before joining the others. Rosalie slipped into an ice blue dress Tom had said reminded him of clouds floating over the mountains in late afternoon. These lovely clothes he'd bought for her cost too much. She waited for Tom in the hall, wondering what kept him.
He said hardly a word during the meal. Even Trina noticed how quiet her brother was and nudged Rosalie, whispering so he couldn't hear.
“What's wrong with Tom?”
“He got a wire from your father. I should let him tell you about it.”
“He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“Yes! It was something about the bull, I think.” She didn't feel she should say more.
After the meal, the men headed for the front room while the women clustered on the veranda. Rosalie wished she could talk to Tom about the wire, but even when they'd been alone, he'd said nothing, so she hadn't disturbed him.
Trina had other ideas, though.
“I'm going to find out what that wire said. Aren't you burning up with curiosity?”
