by Wind, Ruth
Tonio stopped and turned around. “You okay?”
Tanya nodded, breathing slowly, her hand on a carved wooden post. “It’s just been a long day,” she said.
He smiled, and it wasn’t phony or falsely patient. “I’ll have Desmary bring you some coffee or something.”
“No, that’s all right,” she said, straightening. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
Oh, Ramón, you’ve done a fine, fine job! Tanya smiled. “Very.”
By the time he’d led the way up a wide, sweeping staircase to the third floor of the old farmhouse, Tanya had calmed considerably. He showed her into a gracious, turn-of-the-century room with wide windows overlooking the semiarid land. Sea-foam green wallpaper graced the angles made by the dormers, and a handmade quilt in green and white covered the bed. For a single moment, Tanya could not quite believe this would be her room.
With a surprising lack of self-consciousness, Tonio pointed out the bathroom down the hall, the linen closet and various other amenities. She drank in the resonant tenor of his voice and found hints of the three-year-old she’d left behind.
But she could not study him the way she wished to, not now. She couldn’t seem too curious or strange, so it would have to be done in bits. His voice, his easy movements—those were enough for now.
“Thanks,” she said, finally, knowing she should let him go. “I’ll be fine.”
“See you at dinner,” Tonio said amiably, and left, shutting the door behind him.
Tanya sank down on the bed, alone in the quiet for the first time since she could remember. Even at the halfway house, there had been constant noise—the sound of a radio or a telephone or people talking, and the rooms had been only one step above the cells at the prison. Here, the quilt was soft with many washings and smelled faintly of dusting powder. With a sense of sybaritic freedom, Tanya closed her eyes and pulled the quilt around her, drowning in the deliciousness.
This was what she had missed, more than anything. Pure solitude, and silence. For several long moments, she reveled in it, drowned in it, and then was startled by a knock at the door. “Just a minute!” she called.
It was Antonio, back again, a stack of magazines in his hands. “Don’t tell my dad I forgot these,” he said, sheepishly. “I was supposed to put them in here before you got here and I forgot.”
Tanya smiled and accepted the stack. “The New Yorker?” she said in a puzzled voice. “Interesting.”
Tonio inclined his head, putting his hands on his hips. “Yeah, well, Dad’s got this thing about magazines. Everybody has magazines in their rooms—weird stuff, all of it, like that.”
Tanya sensed he wasn’t in a hurry to go, and held the magazines loosely against her chest. As if she were only lazily making conversation, she flipped the top magazine against her and asked, “Where do they come from?”
“In the mail. We get like twenty magazines and newspapers a week. The postman has to make a special trip.”
Tanya lifted her head and smiled. “He has an unusual approach to things, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Yeah, he’s a good guy once you get through all his weirdness.”
“Weird?” Now she noticed the beautiful slant of her son’s eyes, the deep clear blue framed with extraordinarily long, sooty lashes. As a baby, those lashes had swept over half his cheeks when he slept. No old lady in the world could resist him. “He doesn’t seem weird to me.”
Tonio gave her a tilted smile, and the expression was rakish, even in a fourteen-year-old. “You’ll see.” There was fondness in his tone. “He’s not like anybody else.”
Tanya nodded. “Thanks. I won’t tell you forgot.”
“Desmary said you can come on down whenever you want.”
“Thanks,” she said again, and her hope that everything would be all right soared. Cheerfully, she changed her clothes and went down the stairs to the kitchen, humming softly under her breath.
For the most part, it didn’t look as if much of the farmhouse had been altered. As she passed through the rooms of the ground floor—living room, library, what surely once would have been called a parlor, and dining room with a fireplace—she noticed the fine detail work that was the hallmark of turn-of-the-century craftsmen. All had been lovingly preserved.
Even in the kitchen, attempts had been made to keep the original flavor of the old house. A broad bank of windows looked toward the barns, and a big butcher-block table dominated the center of the room.
There the quaintness ended and the stainless steel began. Industrial-size refrigerators banked one wall, and below the windows were deep, functional sinks adjacent to a huge dishwasher in the corner.
Stirring the contents of a big pot was an old woman, almost whimsically misplaced in the gleaming kitchen. She turned at the sound of Tanya’s feet on the linoleum floor, and Tanya was reminded of dolls made from apples. Her pale brown face was seamed deeply around snapping, alert blue eyes. A flour-dusted red apron covered a plump figure, and gray-and-white braids touched her hips. “Hi,” Tanya said, a little shyly. “You must be Desmary.”
“Hello, Tanya!” Her voice was both robust and kind. “I’ve been waiting to meet you. Come in and sit down.”
“Oh, I’d rather help you get supper on the table, if I may.”
“Today, you just watch how I do things.” She pointed with a wooden spoon to the banks of cupboards along one wall. “Poke around and find out where things are, and you’ll be more of a help than a hindrance tomorrow.” She smiled over her shoulder.
Tanya chuckled. “Okay.” Still a little hesitant, she rounded the room, opening doors and cupboards and drawers. “How long have you worked here?” she asked, memorizing the organization of the refrigerator and freezer.
“I’ve been a cook all my life,” she said, and Tanya caught a hint of a lilt to her words. Irish or perhaps Scottish, but a long time in the past. “I’ve been cookin’ for Ramón and his boys since he opened up the ranch to them.”
“Do you like it?”
“Aye.” She gestured toward the drawers. “Fetch me a slotted spoon from that top one, will you?”
Tanya hurried to comply. As Desmary turned to take the utensil, Tanya saw the rolling, limping gait of very bad feet, and nearly offered to fetch a stool as well, but remembered in time that Ramón had asked her to be discreet. Instead, she pointed through a set of double doors to a long, open room set with small, family-size tables. “Is that where everyone eats?”
“The boys and the counselors eat there,” she said. “The rest of us use the other dining room—you’ll eat with us.” Lifting chicken pieces from broth, she added, “Ramón would give everything to the boys. But I told him he needs to have a time he isn’t with them.”
Tanya smiled. “You take care of him, then.”
“Aye, since he has no wife or mother to do it.” She gave Tanya a mischievous grin. “Men can’t do it by themselves, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
The back door opened and as if their conversation had called him, Ramón strode in. Tanya noticed again the sense of energy that surrounded him, a vigor she found deeply appealing. “Ah, you’ve met! Good.”
“Aye, we’ve met, no thanks to you, lad.” Desmary turned, her movements as laborious as before, and Tanya caught Ramón’s eye above the old woman’s head. Quick knowledge passed between them—Tanya would happily share his cause to protect and make comfortable this delightful woman.
He joined them beside the stove and reached for a shred of chicken, which he popped into his mouth before Desmary could slap his hand. “Not bad,” he said with a wink toward Tanya. “Needs salt.”
“Leave my food alone, boy, or I’ll feed you porridge for dinner.”
Ramón chuckled. “No, you won’t, old woman,” he said, touching her shoulder fondly. “I brought you a helper today.”
He touched Tanya’s shoulder, too. The gesture was meant to be inclusive and comforting, and she could tell from even such short acquaintance t
hat Ramón was the sort of man who touched people easily and often.
She told herself all those things, feeling the light, friendly grip of that beautiful, long-fingered hand against her skin. But reason warred with emotion, and even the emotions warred with each other. In eleven years, she’d not been touched in friendliness, and her first impulse was to pull away violently, as she had at the bus station. She quelled the impulse by staring at the piles of steaming chicken on a plate.
Ramón’s fingers moved on her shoulder and on Desmary’s. Inclusive, gentle, meant to comfort. She swallowed, hearing only the voices that flowed around her in easy camaraderie as a second emotion swelled through her: need. Not need as in desire, although his warm palm sparked the same rustling of cinders she’d experienced earlier. No, this need was more dangerous even than desire. It was the oldest and most devastating need of the human spirit, the need to be enfolded, held close to the heart and soul of another, mingling comfort and quiet and…
Pressing her lips together, she eased away from him, pretending to need to find something from a drawer. When she looked up, Ramón was gazing at her silently, a measuring expression in his dark eyes. Hastily, she looked away, wondering how in the world she was going to gird herself to resist him.
Chapter Three
Dear Antonio,
I’ve taken up running. It’s strange to be doing it—me, who could never play any sport, who was always the last one chosen for a game in school—but I love it. I love moving in the morning air, feeling the wind cool my hot skin. I love the taste of morning on my tongue. But mostly, I like feeling strong. I like feeling as if no one could catch me unless I wanted them to.
Maybe if I’d learned to run before this, you and I would be running somewhere together. Maybe I’d be the one taking you to first grade, instead of your Uncle Ramón. Maybe—
No, thinking that way makes a person crazy. I love running. I’m glad I found it. Perhaps one day, you and I will have a chance to run on a track or in a park somewhere. Anywhere. Be good, hijo.
Love, Mom
Dinner that first night was awkward. Tanya ate with Ramón and Tonio and Desmary in the warm, wood-trimmed dining room with its built-in buffet and lace curtains hanging at the windows. She tried to appear alert and interested in the conversation, but the truth was, waves of exhaustion and emotion—shock, joy, and if she allowed it, attraction—rocked her.
Putting peas on her plate, she tried to ignore that last thought and the way it sneaked in, like a boy in the trunk of a car at a drive-in movie. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of even considering Ramón Quezada attractive. She couldn’t let herself be that vulnerable.
In prison, she had learned to stay alert, to live in the moment. It had been the only way she could quell the periodic attacks of panic she experienced there. By focusing on the very instant in which she found herself, she could manage anything. Such an approach helped her handle terrible things by taking them one at a time. It also gave her an ability to treasure the joyous moments, to really be present in them when they happened. Taking in a calming, deep breath, she looked around. In this moment she saw Tonio at fourteen, his hair black and gleaming, his teeth even and big and white in his planed face. A beautiful man-child who’d once shared her very blood. He shared this moment with her, after so many years of her wishing it could be so.
A miracle.
At the edge of her peripheral vision, Ramón laughed. She saw his long, dark throat move with his pleasure, saw his lips turn up, his teeth shine white.
Tanya willed her focus to the other side of the table, where Desmary sat, her hair gone wispy with the heat of the kitchen, her apple-doll face shadowed in the low light. Tanya knew she would like the old woman.
But women were always easier. She understood women. Men had such different signals and ways of being. Their customs and language were a thing apart.
Ramón moved. Tanya glanced over, and watched as he bent to give a tidbit of food to a cat who waited patiently at the side of his chair. The cat delicately accepted the morsel from his long fingers, and Ramón patiently waited until the cat was finished before he straightened.
He caught her gaze and gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that. Do you hate to see animals fed from the table? I know a lot of people don’t like it.”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “I never had pets.”
“Never?” Tonio echoed. As if stunned, he looked around the room. A border collie slept by the door, a canary sang in a corner, and the tortoiseshell cat kept vigil at Ramón’s chair. “How sad.”
Tanya smiled. “It was. I’m glad I can get to know so many animals here.”
Ramón chuckled. “I think Merlin would be a good dog for Tanya, don’t you? He likes women a lot.”
“Merlin?”
“I bet we won’t even have to introduce you,” Ramón said. “Merlin will find you.” A twinkle shone in his dark eyes. “He’s a character, I warn you.”
The chuckle and the twinkle and his mesmerizing voice combined to envelop Tanya in a powerful field of sexual awareness. It was bold and clear and true—and all the more overwhelming because it had been so long since she’d experienced the feeling. With effort, she looked away. “I’ll look forward to it,” she mumbled.
Focus, she told herself. Candles burned in old brass candlesticks on the mantel, their flames reflecting in the high mirror over the fireplace. A small table by the hearth held a very elaborate chess set, made of carved silver-and-brass figures set with faux jewels. A woman had made this room, she thought, and wondered who. Ramón’s mother? Grandmother? A sister?
On the table were handmade rolls and a bowl of peas and a nice slab of roast beef, and a pot of coffee and a pitcher of water.
Tanya tried to keep her focus on those things, but every time she turned her head even a little, there he was again, filling her vision. It astonished her that he’d grown so fully into himself, so rich a feast for her senses that she could barely stand to look at him.
Focus. On Antonio. Her son. What an amazing thought that was sometimes! She liked his voice. Not too deep, not too high—a pleasant tenor faintly lilting with a southwest accent. That accent had delighted her upon her arrival in Albuquerque so many years ago, and it would have surprised her deeply if he’d escaped it. He spoke now of his girlfriend, Teresa, who was fourteen and very smart.
Tanya smiled at that. “Does she get good grades?” she asked, buttering a roll.
“No. She’s not real good at school but she’s smart about everything. She knows stuff.” He brightened. “She likes to read.”
It was impossible to avoid sharing a smile with Ramón over that. He’d been so impressed with her taste in reading—and Tanya hadn’t even known enough to know she was slowly working her way through most of the classics of the English language. She just read because she liked it, because books were safe and took her away from the strains of daily life.
And not even Victor could be jealous of a book.
Ramón winked at her. His expression was gentle and kind, his fathomless eyes like the night sky, endless and vast beyond all imagining. He had a great face, Tanya thought, admiring again the cut of cheekbones, the high-bridged nose and elegantly carved nostrils. She avoided his mouth this time. It was just too—well, sexy.
As if he sensed her thoughts, something in his face changed. It was slight and almost indefinable, but definite. It was a penetrating expression that made her aware of her female parts. Aware of her skin, and her limbs. It made her aware, too, of his skin and limbs and male parts.
The thought was unexpected and oddly erotic. Trying to appear composed, she reached for the bowl of mashed potatoes. The bowl was not a problem, but she had terrible trouble grasping the spoon between her thumb and forefinger. It was only a matter of seconds, but it seemed like hours before she could hold it properly and ladle potatoes on her plate.
“This food is wonderful, Desmary,” she said. Her voice croaked a little. Embarrassed, she vowed to
be quiet and keep her eyes to herself.
In a few days, she’d be used to everything, she told herself. She’d be used to the smells of the farmhouse, age and cooking and maleness. She’d be used to the sound of Ramón’s voice, rich with inflections, rolling around her like a musical composition. She’d be used to catching sight of Antonio, blue-eyed and dark and so beautiful.
Feeling close to tears, she put her fork carefully beside her plate and looked at Ramón. “I think I’m very tired. I’d like to go to my room.”
A flicker of concern touched his eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She stood. “It’s just been a very long day.” Ramón put his napkin aside. “I’ll walk up with you.”
“No. Please, just enjoy your dinner.”
“I’ll be back in a minute, Desmary. Don’t let the boys take my plate.”
His solicitousness made her feel even more vulnerable, and therefore panicky. She’d spent too many long years learning how to hide her feelings, how to appear strong when she felt like a marshmallow inside.
But in all that time, she’d not had to confront her past in such concrete ways. Nor had she been attracted to anyone. In fact, she’d believed that part of her dead forever until she’d seen Ramón standing on the platform this afternoon.
Now he stood there, beautiful and kind, holding out one long-fingered brown hand toward her. “I’m okay,” she said, and bolted.
She ran all the way to her room on the third floor and slammed the door closed. The soft, soft bed with its piles of pillows looked as inviting as a mother’s arms. She kicked off her shoes and dived into the comforting mass, making a cocoon of pillows and coverlet, shutting out all thought with the same picture that had given her comfort so many nights in prison…a simple open meadow, surrounded with tall pines. In the middle of it was a tent. Her tent. When she went in, nothing could harm her.
Thus comforted, she fell asleep.
* * *
Ramón cursed himself as Tanya ran away from him. Once again, he’d frightened her. It was going to be a lot more difficult than he thought to learn his way around her.
