Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  Re­gi­na nod­ded, fas­ci­na­ted.

  "But Ge­or­ge was smart, I got­ta hand it to him. He to­ok off at six­te­en and so­on ope­ned a sto­re in San Lu­is Obis­po. He ma­de him­self a for­tu­ne, not as a mer­c­hant but by spe­cu­la­ting in re­al es­ta­te way be­fo­re ever­yo­ne el­se jum­ped on the ban­d­wa­gon. He saw the ra­il­ro­ad co­ming in the early '80s. We sta­yed in to­uch. An' one day we ag­re­ed on an al­li­an­ce bet­we­en our two fa­mi­li­es. Ge­or­ge was get­ting for his gran­d­son-yo­ur son-what he'd al­ways wan­ted for him­self: to be boss of Mi­ra­mar. To be the king."

  Re­gi­na un­der­s­to­od it all then. She co­uld sympat­hi­ze with the man who had grown up as an or­p­han and con­se­qu­ently was de­ter­mi­ned to se­cu­re for his fa­mily the land and po­si­ti­on, the po­wer and the ro­ots, that Mi­ra­mar wo­uld bring. And to se­cu­re that, he wo­uld do it thro­ugh her, his da­ug­h­ter. Of co­ur­se, she was only an ac­cep­tab­le bri­de to so­me­one li­ke James be­ca­use she was a we­althy he­iress. She didn't ha­ve to ask to know that had Ge­or­ge re­ma­ined pen­ni­less, fri­end or not, Rick wo­uld not ha­ve af­fi­an­ced his son to her. But Re­gi­na ac­cep­ted that as the way of the world. And in ac­cep­ting it, she re­ali­zed that she was a so­mew­hat worldly yo­ung wo­man, anot­her clue to her cha­rac­ter. And she was sorry for the fat­her she co­uldn't re­mem­ber, be­ca­use his dre­ams had di­ed with James.

  "Ge­or­ge and I we­re li­ke brot­hers," Rick sa­id. "He's de­ad and James is de­ad, but you can co­unt on me, Eli­za­beth. You can co­unt on me to be a fat­her to you."

  Re­gi­na was mo­ved. How co­uld she not be? She was no lon­ger mar­rying his son, no lon­ger mar­rying in­to the fa­mily, and Rick did not ha­ve to ex­tend him­self the way that he was do­ing. "Thank you."

  Sla­de had stop­ped back-kic­king the bu­re­au, but now he thum­ped it on­ce, hard, re­min­ding ever­yo­ne that he was the­re. "My fat­her, Mr. Kin­d­ness him­self."

  Rick lun­ged to his fe­et. "You got so­met­hing you want to say?"

  Sla­de slid ab­ruptly to his fe­et. "No. But don't you? Don't you ha­ve so­met­hing to add?"

  Re­gi­na re­gar­ded the two men in shock and fright, won­de­ring if they might ac­tu­al­ly co­me to blows. Both of them we­re suf­fu­sed with an­ger, whi­le she didn't un­der­s­tand the hid­den me­aning in Sla­de's qu­es­ti­on.

  "You le­ave her alo­ne," Rick sa­id.

  "Oh, so now you want me to le­ave her alo­ne!"

  Rick con­t­rol­led him­self. When he tur­ned to Re­gi­na, he ma­na­ged to smi­le. "Yo­ur daddy wo­uld turn over in his gra­ve if I didn't ta­ke ca­re of you."

  Re­gi­na lo­oked at Rick, who was now smi­ling warmly at her, and she lo­oked at Sla­de, who wasn't smi­ling at all. What on earth was go­ing on? And did she ha­ve any cho­ice?

  "Thank you," she sa­id, ma­king the only de­ci­si­on pos­sib­le.

  “I’ll ta­ke you up on yo­ur of­fer of hos­pi­ta­lity, for a whi­le an­y­way." She co­uld not spe­ak calmly. She was sha­king in­si­de and af­ra­id to lo­ok at Sla­de and wit­ness his re­ac­ti­on to her de­ci­si­on. It had so­me­how be­co­me im­por­tant to her that he ap­pro­ve, not just of her de­ci­si­on, but of her.

  And she didn't think that he did. His next words con­fir­med her fe­ars.

  "I gu­ess that set­tles it," Sla­de sa­id darkly. "Let me gu­ess. You're gon­na he­ad out now, right, Dad? And you want me to es­cort our gu­est to Mi­ra­mar on­ce she's re­ady."

  Rick scow­led. "Do you think you might ex­tend yo­ur­self to do that?"

  Sla­de didn't an­s­wer. Wit­ho­ut even lo­oking at Re­gi­na, he stro­de from the ro­om, but not be­fo­re Re­gi­na saw how angry he was.

  Rick and Re­gi­na we­re left alo­ne. Re­gi­na was stun­ned. And she was dis­ma­yed. Why was Sla­de so angry? Why wo­uld her vi­si­ting his ho­me up­set him so? She had tho­ught him to be her fri­end. She lo­oked up at his fat­her. "What ha­ve I do­ne?"

  Rick ca­me aro­und the tab­le and pat­ted her sho­ul­der. "It's not you. Trust me on that. You're pretty and swe­et and a man'd ha­ve to be blind not to see that. It's me. We don't get along. We ne­ver ha­ve. When I want so­met­hing, he's got to fight me. He's al­ways be­en that way. He's al­ways be­en a har­d­he­aded re­bel. Just li­ke his mot­her."

  Re­gi­na sta­red up at the ol­der man. She he­ard the reg­ret in his to­ne. And she he­ard mo­re. She he­ard the lo­ve-the lo­ve he'd hid­den so well in front of his son.

  Chapter 5

  They left Tem­p­le­ton be­hind. A few mi­les from the small town was a dirt cros­sro­ads whe­re they tur­ned west, pas­sing a cru­de whi­te sign which re­ad MI­RA­MAR in hand-pa­in­ted black let­te­ring. The three ot­her signs di­rec­ted traf­fic north to Pa­so Rob­les 5 mi­les, east to Fres­no 112 mi­les, or so­uth back to Tem­p­le­ton 2 mi­les. On­ce they tur­ned, the ra­il­ro­ad tracks, which ran north and so­uth, so­on di­sap­pe­ared from vi­ew. An en­d­less sea of gol­den hills sur­ro­un­ded them. Dark pi­ne-clad mo­un­ta­ins ho­ve­red be­hind them. Hawks to­ok wing abo­ve them, gli­ding high in­to the vi­vidly blue sky. Re­gi­na wo­uld ha­ve be­en awed with the sce­nery had she not be­en stric­ken with ten­si­on.

  For Sla­de sat be­si­de her on the front se­at of an old-fas­hi­oned buggy pul­led by two spi­ri­ted bay ma­res. Her half a do­zen trunks we­re pi­led in the bac­k­se­at be­hind them. He had not sa­id one word to her sin­ce he had ar­ri­ved at her ho­tel ro­om to lo­ad her lug­ga­ge. Nor had he gi­ven her mo­re than a cur­sory glan­ce or two. He co­uld not ha­ve ma­de his dis­p­le­asu­re with her mo­re ob­vi­o­us.

  The sign di­rec­ting them to­ward Mi­ra­mar had not in­di­ca­ted how far away it was. Yet even if it we­re only mi­nu­tes from them, she co­uld not en­du­re this kind of si­len­ce. "Yo­ur fat­her is too ge­ne­ro­us," she sa­id softly in an at­tempt to ma­ke con­ver­sa­ti­on.

  Sla­de sa­id not­hing.

  "I am very gra­te­ful to him." She co­uld not be­li­eve he wo­uld re­fu­se to talk with her at all.

  "I'm su­re you are."

  His to­ne was ci­vil, if unen­t­hu­si­as­tic, and she bre­at­hed with re­li­ef. "He didn't ha­ve to of­fer me his hos­pi­ta­lity," she of­fe­red.

  "That's right. Rick do­esn't do an­y­t­hing he do­esn't want to do." This ti­me he lo­oked at her hard.

  "You al­most so­und as if you're war­ning me."

  "May­be I am."

  "He's yo­ur fat­her."

  "Don't I know it."

  Re­gi­na ope­ned her mo­uth to tell him that Rick lo­ved him, then she shut it. She wo­uld be tres­pas­sing. That was a su­bj­ect that was much too per­so­nal for her to bro­ach.

  "I know you're angry," she sa­id very softly. "I'm sorry."

  He lo­oked at her aga­in. The­re was an­ger in his eyes, but not the un­con­t­rol­led bla­ze she'd se­en in the ho­tel ro­om that mor­ning just be­fo­re he'd stro­de out.

  "I'm sorry," she re­pe­ated, dis­ma­yed. "Ange­ring you is the last thing I wo­uld want to do, not af­ter the way you sa­ved me."

  His grip tig­h­te­ned on the re­ins. "Stop tal­king li­ke that. I didn't sa­ve you. I fo­und you and bro­ught you to town, that's all. If I hadn't fo­und you, so­me­one el­se wo­uld ha­ve."

  "Wo­uld they? Or wo­uld I ha­ve wo­ken up, wan­de­red un­til I drop­ped, may­be even di­ed?"

  His glan­ce ske­we­red her. "I'm not as­king for yo­ur gra­ti­tu­de."

  "But you al­re­ady ha­ve it."

  Sla­de sta­red stra­ight ahe­ad, out over the hor­ses' he­ads at the fa­ded blue ho­ri­zon. "Damn it," he sa­id very softly.

  Dis­ma­yed, Re­gi­na sa­id im­pul­si­vely, "Turn aro­und. Ta­ke me back to Tem­p­l
e­ton. It's all right. I'll stay at the ho­tel un­til I fe­el bet­ter and then I'll go to San Lu­is Obis­po. I'm su­re Su­san wo­uld not turn me away in my con­di­ti­on. I will not im­po­se on you any fur­t­her."

  He gri­ma­ced, swi­ve­ling to lo­ok at her. "Do I se­em li­ke such a he­el?"

  "No! Not at all! I just don't un­der­s­tand why you're so angry with me."

  He swal­lo­wed. His ga­ze slip­ped to her mo­uth be­fo­re mo­ving back to her eyes. "This isn't yo­ur fa­ult. I'm not angry with you."

  "You're not?"

  "No."

  Re­gi­na was re­li­eved, mo­re than re­li­eved; she was ter­ribly glad. But his dark, bro­oding ex­p­res­si­on in­s­tantly cha­sed away her smi­le. "If you're not angry with me, then it must be yo­ur fat­her you're so angry with."

  "That's right." From his to­ne, she knew she was cros­sing in­to ter­ri­tory whe­re he had put up in­vi­ola­te bo­un­da­ri­es. Yet she co­uld not stop. For she kept re­mem­be­ring the last ti­me she had se­en Rick, she kept he­aring the reg­ret in his vo­ice, and the lo­ve, and so­met­hing el­se she hadn't iden­ti­fi­ed at the ti­me but which she co­uld la­bel now in hin­d­sig­ht-the re­sig­na­ti­on.

  Re­gi­na co­uld not res­t­ra­in her­self. "Be­ca­use of what he sa­id?"

  Sla­de lo­oked at her.

  "Be­ca­use he in­sul­ted you?"

  "It wo­uld ta­ke a lot mo­re than a lo­usy in­sult from Rick to get my go­at," he sa­id sharply. "Stop pus­hing."

  "Then it is me. You're mad at him, but it's be­ca­use of me!" # "I was angry with Rick long be­fo­re I ever met you, and I'll be angry with him long af­ter you're go­ne."

  His words dum­b­fo­un­ded her. Her he­art wept over his re­la­ti­on­s­hip with his fat­her, a re­la­ti­on­s­hip she wan­ted to he­al, one she wan­ted to in­ter­fe­re in-which she ab­so­lu­tely must not do. And the as­sum­p­ti­on that she wo­uld be go­ne, whi­le the con­f­lict re­ma­ined, dis­ma­yed her.

  She didn't da­re qu­es­ti­on her­self too clo­sely and ask her­self why.

  And of co­ur­se, she knew that she was so­me­how in­vol­ved in his ro­iling emo­ti­ons even if he hadn't sa­id so. She sen­sed it; she felt it.

  She had be­en sta­ring at him and he was fi­nal­ly com­pel­led to turn his he­ad to­ward her aga­in. The­ir ga­zes le­aped to­get­her, held, then dar­ted apart. His pro­fi­le was hard and han­d­so­me, al­most too per­fect, but he was clen­c­hing his jaw. He sa­id thro­ugh grit­ted te­eth, "What in hell do you want from me?"

  Re­gi­na did not he­si­ta­te. "Fri­en­d­s­hip."

  He jer­ked to­ward her, his ex­p­res­si­on ama­zed. She was mo­ti­on­less, unab­le to be­li­eve that she had be­en so di­rect. The in­c­re­du­lity on his fa­ce told her that he was dis­be­li­eving, too. Her palms be­gan to per­s­pi­re. She did not ne­ed her me­mory to know that la­di­es did not of­fer fri­en­d­s­hip to stran­ge men, un­less it was a cer­ta­in kind of fri­en­d­s­hip, an il­li­cit one, and that had not be­en her me­aning at all.

  "Fri­en­d­s­hip isn't pos­sib­le bet­we­en us."

  Re­gi­na lo­oked ca­re­ful­ly at her glo­ved hands, fol­ded in her lap, just as he ca­re­ful­ly sta­red out over the hor­ses' he­ads. She sho­uld let this en­ti­re to­pic drop and they wo­uld both pre­tend it had ne­ver even be­en ra­ised. In­s­te­ad, she he­ard her­self say, "Why not?"

  Abruptly he hal­ted the ma­res, this ti­me pul­ling down the bra­ke and win­ding the re­ins aro­und it. He sat very still, but Re­gi­na felt the in­c­re­dib­le wa­ve of energy rus­hing thro­ugh him, co­iling up in him. She mis­to­ok it for an­ger, and she reg­ret­ted her bras­h­ness com­p­le­te- He lo­oked at her. Wha­te­ver he had we­re no lon­ger hid­den in dark sha­dows-if she co­uld only de­cip­her them. His eyes we­re bright and in­ten­se. His ne­eds we­re raw and po­wer­ful, they we­re ne­eds she did not un­der­s­tand, and she was both at­trac­ted to and frig­h­te­ned by him in that sin­g­le mo­ment.

  "Un­less you me­an a cer­ta­in kind of fri­en­d­s­hip-and even that wo­uld be im­pos­sib­le."

  Re­gi­na co­uld not spe­ak. His re­gard was mes­me­ri­zing. His words might ha­ve shoc­ked her had she not be­en con­su­med by the he­at of his ga­ze. She was a wo­man and he was a very han­d­so­me man, and the at­trac­ti­on she ba­rely un­der­s­to­od was gro­wing stron­ger with every he­ar­t­be­at. She fo­und it in­c­re­asingly dif­fi­cult to bre­at­he and she was won­de­ring, just won­de­ring, what wo­uld hap­pen if she da­red to le­an slightly for­ward.

  "Don't." He sa­id the one word, but it held a vo­lu­me of me­anings, all war­nings.

  War­nings she cho­se to ig­no­re. Unab­le to te­ar her ga­ze from him, she swa­yed for­ward. It was not even an inch. But it was eno­ugh.

  "Eli­za­beth."

  She wa­ited. Ti­me was sus­pen­ded. She knew he was go­ing to kiss her. The de­si­re was the­re in his eyes. She ye­ar­ned un­con­t­rol­lably for the to­uch of his lips. He dip­ped his he­ad. She didn't mo­ve, and fi­nal­ly, fi­nal­ly, it ca­me-the me­rest brus­hing of his mo­uth upon hers. Al­most im­me­di­ately he jer­ked away from her.

  Her he­art thun­de­red in her ears. She ga­zed at him, wi­de-eyed. He was sta­ring at her too, his ex­p­res­si­on ag­hast. Ab­ruptly he un­wo­und the re­ins, lif­ted the bra­ke, and ur­ged the ma­res on, all in one smo­oth, well-prac­ti­ced mo­ve­ment. The te­am le­aped for­ward in­s­tantly.

  Unset­tled was too gen­t­le a word to des­c­ri­be how Re­gi­na felt. She co­uld still fe­el his lips on hers; her en­ti­re body was cla­mo­ring for mo­re, for so much mo­re. She co­uld not ta­ke her eyes off him. De­ar Lord, he was so han­d­so­me-mo­re than han­d­so­me. She clen­c­hed her hands in her lap.

  "That was a mis­ta­ke," he sa­id harshly wit­ho­ut lo­oking at her.

  "What?"

  He re­fu­sed to lo­ok at her. "One damn big mis­ta­ke."

  She stra­ig­h­te­ned her spi­ne. A wash of hot co­lor crept up her che­eks as she re­ali­zed that he was reg­ret­ting the kiss, whi­le she was che­ris­hing it. Her pink flush de­epe­ned when she was struck with how bra­zen she had be­en in en­ti­cing him. "Oh, de­ar," she whis­pe­red.

  "It's too la­te for 'oh, de­ar.' "

  "Oh, de­ar," she sa­id aga­in, trying to ima­gi­ne what he must think of her.

  "But of co­ur­se, it's just what Rick wants."

  She lo­oked at him.

  "Don't lo­ok at me with tho­se big brown eyes!"

  "You me­an my co­ming he­re to Mi­ra­mar, don't you?" Or did he me­an the in­ti­macy they had just sha­red?

  "I me­an ever­y­t­hing. I'm no damn sa­int. And I ne­ver wis­hed I was-un­til now."

  "You are a go­od per­son," she sa­id fer­vently. "A very go­od per­son."

  He whip­ped aro­und, sta­ring at her. When he re­co­ve­red, his vo­ice was ho­ar­se. "Lady, you ha­ve one hell of an ima­gi­na­ti­on-eit­her that, or you're too go­od to be true. Don't ma­ke me out to be so­met­hing I'm not."

  "I'm not."

  "I won't sit he­re and ar­gue abo­ut my cha­rac­ter with you."

  "All right," Re­gi­na ag­re­ed, sha­ken now to the co­re of her be­ing. She had ma­de him very angry. It was the kiss, or her prying, per­haps even both. But she pon­de­red his dark and com­p­li­ca­ted na­tu­re, unab­le to help her­self, and she fo­und her­self be­ra­ting the man who had ra­ised him. And the me­mory of his kiss still lin­ge­red.

  The ro­ad they tra­ve­led on wo­und ste­adily west and ste­adily up­ward, sur­ro­un­ded by the sum­mer-bur­ned hills. The hills se­emed to be­co­me big­ger and big­ger, the swat­c­hes of bent oaks spar­ser. Cat­tle flec­ked the co­un­t­r­y­si­de. Ro­un­ding the cor­ner of one slo­pe, they emer�
�ged sud­denly on­to a ba­re rid­ge.

  Sla­de had not spo­ken to her sin­ce the kiss, but he ur­ged the te­am to the cliff's ed­ge and hal­ted them at the over­lo­ok. Re­gi­na gas­ped. Al­t­ho­ugh she was very much struck by the vi­ew he had of­fe­red her, she was al­so well awa­re that he was wat­c­hing her clo­sely.

  The ed­ge of the rid­ge, whe­re the buggy sto­od, drop­ped pre­ci­pi­to­usly to a val­ley be­low. Ac­ross that val­ley, a sea of bron­ze sad­dle­back mo­un­ta­ins ro­se up to fa­ce them, hu­ge and ba­re and stark. Cat­tle gra­zed the lo­wer ele­va­ti­ons. Et­c­hed aga­inst the­ir rip­pling rim was the ste­el-blue Pa­ci­fic.

  Re­gi­na lo­oked at Sla­de. "Mi­ra­mar?"

  He nod­ded, unab­le to con­ta­in the flash of pri­de in his eyes.

  Re­gi­na had ne­ver be­en fa­ced with such raw ma­j­esty. The land was for­bid­ding in its im­men­sity and star­k­ness, yet it was spec­ta­cu­lar, too.

  Sla­de po­in­ted north, in the op­po­si­te di­rec­ti­on, ac­ross the ot­her si­de of the nar­row rid­ge. "The big val­ley's the­re. Whe­re we ha­ve our gro­ves and the vi­ne­yard. On the hill abo­ve is the ho­use. You can't see it from he­re."

  The mo­un­ta­ins we­re ta­mer on that si­de, re­sem­b­ling the hills he had des­c­ri­bed to her ear­li­er. Oaks and pi­ne sof­te­ned the lan­d­s­ca­pe. The oce­an stret­c­hed out aga­inst that ho­ri­zon, too, dus­ky-blue boldly jux­ta­po­sed aga­inst sum­mer gold.

  Re­gi­na bre­at­hed de­eply. The air had a cle­aner, swe­eter smell, and it was dis­tinctly co­oler than it had be­en in Tem­p­le­ton. Sla­de lif­ted the re­ins. The ro­ad wo­und gently down thro­ugh the hills now. Not many mi­nu­tes pas­sed be­fo­re they en­te­red the val­ley. And just be­fo­re they ac­tu­al­ly ar­ri­ved at the ha­ci­en­da, Re­gi­na knew they we­re ap­pro­ac­hing the sea. She co­uld tas­te the salty tang on the slight bre­eze that lif­ted the ten­d­rils of ha­ir on the back of her neck.