“How messy can one man possibly be?” Mara whispered. “And who is this?”
A man wearing a tall white hat, white apron and white cravat knotted at his neck stepped forward and bowed.
“Pierre Britton,” he announced in a clipped voice, “at your service, Madame.”
Mara glanced at Brock. He winked. “Just tell Pierre what you want to eat, and he’ll fix it for you. As long as it’s not hamburgers. Pierre doesn’t do hamburgers.”
“I am a chef, Madame, not a fry cook. I have trained with the finest in France.”
“I’m looking forward to experiencing your cuisine,” Mara said.
Pierre beamed. “The boy grew up with my food, and see how he is? Very healthy.”
“I’m healthy, all right,” Brock said, “as long as I head for the bunkhouse once or twice a week to chow down on grilled steaks and beans with the hands.”
“Oui!” Pierre exclaimed. “Terrible, the things our boy does.”
“Man cannot live by cordon bleu alone.”
“Steaks half-burned and half-raw. Potatoes fried in fat. Beans laced with lard. Mais oui, terrible, terrible!”
Brock gave Mara a lazy grin as he brushed past her. “I love to goad him,” he said in a low voice. “Come on. I’ll show you the house.”
“Tacos, he eats!” Pierre was exclaiming as Brock led Mara and Abby across the warm terra-cotta tiled floor of the foyer. “Tamales, refried beans, nachos and menudo!”
“And what’s wrong with menudo?” Rosa Maria snapped as she turned from the mirror she had been shining.
“Cow’s stomach!”
“You feed him snails!”
“Your hot chiles will burn his intestines!”
“And your eclairs will give him a heart attack!”
Brock chuckled as he beckoned Mara into the spacious living room. “They’ve been fighting for twenty-five years. They’re happiest when they’re at each other’s throats.”
Silent, Mara carried her daughter into the place that was the heart of his home. Brock watched her face register admiration and wonder as she gazed up at the huge, rough-hewn beams that crossed the twelve-foot ceiling. Each viga was supported by an intricately carved corbel buried in the wall. The adobe walls had been smoothly plastered in a rosy-brown color, even around niches that contained New Mexico artifacts.
As though seeing his own home for the first time, Brock took in the fragile beauty of baskets woven by Mescalero Apaches, clay pots shaped, painted and fired by Indians of the Santa Clara and San Ildefonso pueblos and kachina dolls carved and decorated by Hopis. Old Navajo wool rugs were spread across the tile floor, their patterns evoking spirit gods and their colors of white, gray, black and brown reminiscent of the landscape.
“I keep a fire going even in summer,” Brock said as he pointed to the colossal fireplace that was an unusual combination of stone and sculpted adobe. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” Mara whispered.
Brock recalled the furniture he had removed from Mara’s apartment and taken straight to the thrift store—snagged plaid sofas, garage-sale lamps, cheap curtains. Todd had been a great friend, a superb athlete and a trusted confidante. Brock had supported his decision to major in history and to start an architectural restoration company. But it hadn’t provided much more than the basics for Todd and his young wife.
To Mara, Brock’s long, buttery leather couches, wool-upholstered pillows, Mission-style cabinets, silver-inlaid tables and wrought-iron lamps must seem like utter luxury. “This part of the house used to be all there was,” he explained as he led Mara and the baby past windows that faced north toward the vast plains that stretched to the San Andres Mountains. “The great room is more than a hundred years old. On the other side of it there, you can see the courtyard with the new swimming pool and the gardens. What are now the kitchen, dining room and library used to be bedrooms. My father bought this land from a descendant of the original Spanish land-grant owner. We moved into the house when I was six.”
Mara followed Brock out of the great room and down a long hall lined with Native American and Hispanic art. “So, your father collected New Mexican artifacts?”
“Nope, these are mine,” Brock replied. “I pick up things wherever I go. I particularly like the native crafts: baskets, pottery, silver, weaving. I’ll buy a painting if it’s one I’m partial to.”
Mara gaped at the collection of originals by Peter Hurd, Henriette Wyeth and Gordon Snidow. A large framed Amadeo Peña hung on one long wall, an R.C. Gorman on another.
“If I can find an authentic Hispanic religious artifact,” he was saying as she readjusted Abby on her shoulder and hurried to catch up, “you know, a retablo or a santo—I’m as happy as a skunk eatin’ cabbage.”
“I didn’t realize you were so religious,” Mara remarked.
Brock swung around, surprised at the question. “It’s art. These things come out of old churches. They’re hand-crafted folk art. That’s why I collect them.”
“I thought your interest in Todd’s work was just a whim. He said you liked to try new things all the time. Let’s see…parasailing, hang-gliding, whitewater rafting…rock climbing.”
Brock stared at her, feeling the emotion behind her words. “I’ve collected art for years.”
“Todd never told me.”
“I don’t know why not,” he said, angry with Mara for some reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint. The climbing accident wasn’t her fault. It was his.
“I guess you and Todd covered more ground than I realized.” Her voice was softer now. “You knew him longer.”
“We liked exploring. I’d be hunting something every time we went off someplace together. Todd was looking at the architecture, and I was searching for folk art or paintings.”
She nodded and turned her focus to the beamed ceiling. “So, did your father add the two wings onto the house?”
“I did.”
“You?”
“Sure. Are you surprised?”
“I guess so.”
Brock knew most people thought he lived solely on his father’s coattails. “I took over the ranch about six years ago, after my father died. He founded Barnett Petroleum and turned his attention to the oil leases he owned over in the southeastern part of the state. He pretty much let this place go. I was kind of steamed about it. Then, when the bottom fell out of oil, Dad sort of dropped out of life. Tipped the bottle, you know?”
“I do know. One of my foster dads had a drinking problem.”
“When I was in college,” he continued, “I’d come home on weekends and try to put things back in order around the ranch. Dad died shortly after I graduated, so I moved back in and took over.”
“What happened to the oil business?”
“A management group in Artesia takes care of things for me there. I look in on the operation regularly just to keep my hand in. The oil pays for itself and a little more. Well, a lot more, but the money goes into stocks and other investments. I let some boys in New York play around with it.”
Mara focused on the tiny bundle in her arms, and Brock allowed himself to study Mara. Her hair, brushed shiny-smooth and gleaming, lay like scattered wheat across her shoulders. Mesmerized by her gray-green eyes and her pink lips, he took in her soft curves. Nothing like a long-legged lady in blue jeans, he thought. Mara was definitely beautiful to him—even more so since he had experienced the miracle of Abby’s birth. But this was the last time he would study her this closely, Brock instructed himself. Every time he permitted himself to really look at Mara, it shook him to the core.
Satisfied the baby was sleeping, she faced him again. “Stocks and bonds, art, oil, cattle,” she said. “It’s all pretty foreign to me.”
“Some of the money goes to causes I support. Charities, foundations.” He knew Mara was religious, and she might not think too highly of his interest in acquiring stuff. Brock had gone to church as a boy, and he believed in God and Jesus—all that. But he had learned that money
, and not religion, turned the world.
Brock had hated the loss he’d experienced when his mother moved away. His life felt upside down, and nothing he did could right it. Only financial success seemed to give Brock the feeling of control he craved. Until Todd’s death, he had been sure he held the key to power. Nothing had prepared him for the emptiness and guilt that assailed him afterward. His only hope was that taking charge of the lives of Todd’s wife and baby—salvaging something out of the future he had destroyed for them—would relieve his pain.
Brock led Mara down the hall toward her rooms. “I’ve always wanted to get this place back on its feet. Last year the ranch turned a profit for the first time since the seventies.”
“So, you decided to use your cattle money to improve the house?” she asked.
“Afraid this is oil money.” He pushed open a heavy door. “The ranch keeps itself going, but we’re not setting the world on fire. I’m still working on that. This is the west wing. Here’s where you’ll stay.”
Mara stepped into the huge room and squeezed Abby so tightly the baby whimpered in surprise. Her whole apartment could have fit into this place. And the decor! Thick wool rugs covered the oak floor. A large old bed with enormous posts anchored one wall. Two huge chairs flanked a beehive fireplace that filled a whole corner.
“A fireplace!” She tried to bite back her gasp, but Brock heard it and his mouth lifted in a pleased grin.
“I built one in every room.”
“It’s…nice,” she said as she walked toward the windows that lined an entire wall. Nice was not an adequate word. The windows faced the plains at the base of the San Andres Mountains, now robed in shades of purple and indigo. Two tall French doors opened onto a deep porch on which sat wicker chairs and tables. A swing hung from the beams, its seat drifting back and forth in the slight breeze.
“Your sitting room opens onto the courtyard,” Brock said as he stepped through a doorway.
Startled from the spell the scene had cast over her, Mara followed him into the other room and peered into the dimly lit garden. She could just make out the faint outline of the swimming pool and covered terrace.
“I put a little waterfall by the pool,” he told her as he moved to stand beside her. “I planted a xeriscape garden—native wildflowers, cactus, other stuff that can take the heat and dryness. On my property over by the mountains, I found some great rocks. Big ol’ things. The water runs over them, and makes a calming sound. It’s good for nights when you can’t sleep.”
Mara looked up, wondering what could ever disturb Brock Barnett’s sleep. Highlighted by the setting sun, his stony profile belied the softness in his brown eyes. Odd. All she had ever noticed about him in the past were those severely carved angles of jaw, cheekbone and brow. She’d seen the swagger and the cocky grin, heard the curt sentences, tasted the bitterness the man could leave in his wake.
Who was this person with gardens, art, waterfalls in his soul? Why had he built a beehive fireplace in every room? And what kept him awake at night?
“The baby’s room is next door,” he said. “Come on.”
Mara accompanied him into the adjoining room. Everything he had mentioned sat in perfect showroom newness—crib, high chair, swing, bathtub.
“A rocker!” she exclaimed, delighted at the sight of the large, smooth wood chair with its high arms and comfortably curved back. “This will be perfect for nursing Abby.”
She went straight to the rocker and eased her sore body into its cradling cushions. The chair glided evenly back and forth on the floor without a creak or a bump. Immediately, Abby turned her face inward, and her mouth puckered into an expression of hunger. Mara lifted her eyes to Brock.
He stood in the gathering shadows, hands in his pockets and hat pulled low. “You like the chair?”
“This is perfect.” She let out a breath. “I love it.”
As Abby began to whimper, Brock turned away. “I’ll go see what’s for supper.”
Mara watched the door shut behind him, then she unbuttoned her blouse. She could get used to this, she realized.
“Knock, knock?”
Mara looked up from the crib where Abby lay sleeping peacefully. Rosa Maria Hernandez beckoned from the door.
“Pierre sent me to tell you it’s almost time for supper,” the housekeeper said as Mara crossed the room to her. “He wants to know, will you eat in the main dining room or in the lounge?”
“There’s a lounge?”
“Sure. It’s right down the hall there.”
Mara gave Abby a last check, content that her daughter would be secure without her for a few minutes. As she stepped into her bedroom, she tried to envision this lounge Rosa Maria was talking about. It made the house sound like a hotel.
“You haven’t seen it?” The older woman followed Mara into the room and began turning down the bed. “It’s a big area with tables and chairs, bar, movie screen, pool tables, everything. Mr. Barnett has parties there, you know?”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Sure! He has a big crowd of friends from Las Cruces. They come up to visit. Sometimes they stay all night.”
I’ll bet they do, Mara thought. Just when she was trying to accommodate the image of an art-loving Brock, the old party boy stepped back in. Maybe he simply liked to play with his money, spending it on expensive historical artifacts to impress his friends.
She unzipped her suitcase and wondered how long she could endure living right down the hall from Brock Barnett’s Bar and Grill. How long before the Las Cruces crowd decided it was time to party? Would there be strange men sleeping in the empty rooms up and down the corridor? Women lolling around the pool? Going into Brock’s bedroom? Her husband…
The whole idea made her nauseous—especially the fact that she had actually married such a man. So different from Todd. So opposite to her ideal.
Mara felt lonely enough without family to help her celebrate Abby’s birth, without a mother to help her tend the newborn and with her few friends miles down the highway. To have Brock’s pack of revelers around would be too much. Jerking a pair of jeans from the top of her suitcase, Mara frowned at the picture her mind had conjured.
“I don’t think a lounge is the right place to bring up a baby,” she said firmly.
“Oh, everyone will love Abby. Mr. B.’s friends are…well, they’re…” Rosa Maria’s voice trailed off, and Mara glanced at her.
“They’re what?”
“I was just thinking about some of those who come. I don’t know if he has told anyone.”
“About me?”
“About the wedding.”
“I would doubt if he had, Rosa Maria. This marriage is on paper only. Brock and I have been very honest with each other about that, and everyone else should be aware of it, too. The only purpose of the marriage is to provide for Abby.”
“Mr. B told us—the ones who work here—that he doesn’t know you very well.” The housekeeper plumped Mara’s pillows. “You’re his best friend’s wife?”
“Todd Rosemond was my husband.”
“I’m very sorry about what happened.”
Mara tried to think of a response as she placed her jeans, shirts and socks in the drawers of the large oak bureau near her bed. “I’m sorry, too.”
“None of us could believe it when we heard the news. Mr. Rosemond was a good man.”
Mara turned quickly. “You knew my husband?”
“Sure. He always stopped by the house when he and Mr. B. were going on trips. I remember he came by once when they were hot-air ballooning, and another time when they had explored a cave near Carlsbad. He was here a lot before he got married. But after that, we didn’t see him as much. We all liked your husband. Mr. B. came back happier when they had been out on trips together. He seemed…lighter, you know?”
Mara shrugged. “Todd was like that. He made life fun.”
Uncomfortable at the turn of the conversation, she realized she didn’t like to be reminded of To
dd’s friendship with Brock. If the two had never known each other, Todd would be alive today. He would hold his newborn daughter and kiss his wife. The world would be normal, instead of a mess. It was hard enough to lose a husband without the reminder that his presence had been valued by someone else. Valued by the man who ultimately failed him.
“Mr. B. is lonely these days,” Rosa Maria said. “Even though you would never hear him say it, he misses his friend a lot. Mr. B. is hard and tough on the outside, you know? He’s closed off like a torreón with thick walls built high for protection. He doesn’t open up for people.”
“What about all those Las Cruces party friends?” Mara asked under her breath.
“Them?” Rosa Maria chuckled as she set a crystal water carafe and glass on the bedside table. “Oh, no. They don’t talk together, those people. They dance, drink, swim, have fun. Nothing serious.”
“Sounds like Brock is pretty lighthearted to me.”
“Maybe for a while. Then he goes back to the same way. Quiet, working too hard, a little bit angry, you know? But after spending time with Mr. Rosemond on one of their adventures, he always relaxed. He whistled at his work. He made jokes and teased Pierre…like this morning. I’ll tell you, when Mr. B. came back from a trip with your husband, we could always know. Can you guess how we knew?”
Mara shook her head, but she figured she was going to get an answer anyway.
“He put his feet on the dining-room table, that’s how.”
“What?” she said with a sudden laugh. “His feet?”
“Boots and all. You see, usually Mr. B. sits there in the morning very stiff and brooding with his laptop and cell phone and all his pencils and pens. While he eats breakfast, he plans out everything he wants to do that day. He talks into his little phone, taps messages on his machines, scowls at everybody. He makes us nervous.”
“I can see why.”
“But for a few days after he got back from spending time with his friend, he would be happy. Relaxed. He would leave the laptop in his car or his study. And he would lean back in his chair and put his feet on the table.”
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