Love's Haven

by Catherine Palmer

  Shaking her head, Mara wrapped Abby in the warm white blanket she had crocheted during the summer. Brock had been nothing but kind and good to her since Todd’s death, while she had chastised him and found fault with everything he did. She owed him an apology.

  Easing herself up out of the rocking chair, Mara started toward the crib with its billowy white canopy. Halfway across the room, she stopped. Maybe she would just go and find Brock right now. It was almost noon, and he’d come in for lunch. With Abby sleeping in her arms, maybe they wouldn’t be so tempted to argue. Maybe she could tell him how she felt.

  For a moment, she hesitated again. She hadn’t had a shower this morning, and she was still in her blue bathrobe. But she couldn’t bear to put her maternity clothes back on, even though she had a sinking certainty they were all she could fit into.

  Lifting her chin, she decided it hardly mattered how she looked to Brock Barnett. She walked out of the nursery and started down the hall. “Brock, I wanted to thank you for taking Abby and me in,” she would say. “You’ve been so kind.”

  Kind? Brock Barnett? Mara had to smile. The word hardly fit her image of the man. Tucking Abby more closely into her embrace, she passed the lounge. Remembering her discussion with Brock the night before, she felt a sudden temptation to investigate his den of iniquity. She paused briefly, and then she pushed open the door.

  “Oh, you scared the living daylights out of me!” Ermaline gasped as she lifted her head from behind the long wooden bar. Feather duster in one hand and spray wax in the other, she leaned her elbows on the sleek, aged wood. “Well, hey there, Mrs. B. What brings you in here?”

  “Just looking around. What about you?”

  “I clean this place every morning before I go to the kitchen to help Pierre with lunch. My job is the west wing and the meal serving. Rosa Maria takes care of Mr. B.’s rooms and the main living areas. Pierre’s in charge of the kitchen, and Mr. Potter keeps up the gardens and courtyard. So, what do you think? Ever seen the likes of this little playroom?”

  Mara surveyed the long room with its warm saltillo tile floor, comfortable seating area, entertainment center, pool table and neat kitchenette. “I thought…I thought it would be…different.”

  “This place hardly gets used anymore,” Ermaline said. “Shame. Mr. B. used to have some dandy parties. Folks would come out from Las Cruces and make use of the pool, the barbecue pit, the whole shebang. There’d be lanterns strung across the courtyard and a band playing and everybody having a big ol’time. Christmas we’d have a bonfire. Frank and me got to come, too. Mr. B invited everybody, is what he did. New Year’s we’d have a big time, too. Things are sure quiet now.”

  Mara studied the long linen drapes that covered the wall of windows, blocking the late-November light. “What happened?”

  “Mr. B. told us he’s just too busy for parties nowadays. Pierre was the one who finally faced him head-on about it. You know how Pierre likes to cook, and he gets tired of making meals for one. You should have seen the French stuff he used to turn out of that kitchen for Mr. B.’s shindigs.”

  “What keeps Brock so busy?”

  “Running this ranch. I’m telling you, that’s all he does day and night. He’s either branding or roping or doing something to those crazy cows. He rounds them up and moves them here, moves them there. He goes to market, goes to shows, goes to the fair. He buys a prize bull, and we all have to take a gander at it. ‘Come on, Ermaline,’ he’ll say. ‘Don’t you and Rosa Maria want to see my new Simmental?’ As if I’d know one kind of cow from another.”

  “Why doesn’t he take those friends of his to admire his cattle?”

  “Well, he used to take your husband.”

  “Oh.” Mara lowered her head and focused on the wedding band Todd had given her. Again, she had been brought face-to-face with the realization that he had not belonged to her alone.

  “They’d go look the ranch over, your husband and Mr. B.,” Ermaline went on. “There’s some ruins over toward the mountains where the cliffs are, you know. Those two couldn’t get enough of rooting around there and talking about the olden days. Once in a while Mr. B.’s friends from Las Cruces still come out here. The truth is, he’s got nothing in common with them anymore, but he just doesn’t like to admit it.”

  “Has Brock changed so much over the years?”

  “Sure he has.” Ermaline sprayed the top of the bar and began to rub it with a cloth she dug out of her apron pocket. “Used to be, Mr. B. was out all night and slept most of the day. That was in high school and college, when his daddy—we always called him Mr. Barnett, too—ran this place. The boy had lots of girlfriends, lots of fancy cars, big stereos, that kind of thing. Now, he just works all the time. His Las Cruces friends have become accountants and bankers and office types. They don’t care much about Simmental bulls, and Mr. B. knows it. I suspect they want him back the way he was with his freewheeling life—easy money, fast cars and all that. But he wants this ranch to do good, and that can’t happen if you’re up all night having fun. You know how Mr. B. is. He doesn’t do anything unless he wants to.”

  “I’ve learned that.”

  Ermaline laughed. “It’s his way or no way.”

  Mara strolled down to the end of the room, admiring the bold paintings on the walls and the thick wool rugs on the floors. A huge fireplace dominated the end of the lounge, its grate loaded with heavy, unburned logs.

  Beside the hearth sat an intricately crafted chair built from the sinuous branches of an alligator juniper. Mara touched the strange piece, its arms constructed from whole limbs twisted together and then jointed into the massive legs. A soft green cushion formed the seat, and she couldn’t resist settling into it with Abby.

  “Mr. B made that chair, you know,” Ermaline called from the other end of the room where she was dusting lamps. “He likes to build stuff.”

  Mara glanced at the piece in surprise. “This?”

  “Yep. He’s got a big workshop over on the other side of the house with all his tools. When he can’t sleep, that’s where he’ll be if he’s not in the courtyard. Half this stuff I dust every day is furniture he made. That table there, the bench over yonder, that cabinet by the window. He made you that rocker.”

  “The one in the baby’s room?”

  “Sure. Every day last week after he got back from the hospital, he’d come into the house, change clothes and go straight to the shop. Sawdust just flew, I’m telling you. He was a man possessed. Now, Rosa Maria and me remember what he told us about this marriage being only to take care of you because you’re his best friend’s wife, and all. But we think he’s got a heart for you anyway, Mrs. B. You, and for sure the baby. He made that rocking chair just for you, no doubt about it.”

  “Oh, Ermaline, I don’t—”

  “When he brought it into the house, he said, ‘Put this in the nursery, Ermaline. It’s for the baby’s mama.’ That’s what he said.”

  Mara stared at Abby as she tried to absorb this news. Brock had made that beautiful rocker—for her? She could hardly believe it. She’d treated him so coldly even though he had come to the hospital every day. Because of what had happened to Todd, she had thought nothing but the worst of Brock. And all the while he’d been building her a rocking chair.

  “I’m going to talk to him this minute,” she announced, standing suddenly. “We need to clear up some things.”

  “Good luck finding him,” Ermaline said as Mara carried Abby to the door. “He’s usually gone from sunup to way past dark.”

  Mara paused in the hall. “He doesn’t come home for lunch?”

  “Not even for supper sometimes. I know, I know—if he’s around, supper’s at seven sharp. But Mr. B. likes to eat with the ranch hands when he can. Drives Pierre crazy, of course, but that’s the boss for you. I reckon I’ve gone a whole week without laying eyes on the man.”

  “But this is his house.”

  Ermaline squirted the top of a table with the spray wax. “Sure it’
s his house, all fixed up and perfect. But what’s a house if you don’t have anything to come home to?”

  She tossed her damp rag on the table and began to rub. “Let me know if you find him, Mrs. B. I’ve been needing a case of window cleaner in the worst way.”

  True to Ermaline’s prediction, Brock was nowhere to be found. After lunch alone in her room and a deep afternoon nap, Mara showered and changed into a pink sweater-tunic. She told herself it didn’t look as much like maternity wear as some of her other clothes. With a pair of knit pants, she felt almost presentable.

  After checking the sleeping Abby, Mara brushed out her hair, then braided it into a full French plait and tied the end with a pink ribbon. For the first time since Abby’s birth, she smoothed makeup onto her face, dusted her cheeks with blush and puffed a little powder over her skin. With a touch of liner, shadow and mascara for her eyes, she felt as though she were almost seeing the familiar face of Mara Rosemond in the mirror again.

  But she wasn’t that Mara anymore. Whether she liked it or not, she was Mrs. Barnett, rancher’s wife. She was a mother, too. And she was jobless, penniless, almost homeless. The least she could do was offer her benefactor a polite thank-you.

  Mara checked Abby again, made sure the intercom was on and then headed down the long hall toward the dining room. She still felt awkward and uncomfortable in the huge, empty house, but some things were looking up. She had discovered she could walk without wincing in pain. Even her midsection seemed to be shrinking.

  “There you are!” Ermaline swung into the dining room from the kitchen just as Mara entered from the hall. “Pierre’s fixed the best chicken you ever tasted. He’s baked his famous hot rolls, too.”

  “Is Brock coming?”

  “Doubt it. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him all day. You?”

  “No. No Mr. B sightings today.”

  “Better get used to it.” Ermaline grabbed a serving dish from the cupboard and hurried into the kitchen.

  Mara pulled back the chair she had sat in the night before. This was her place at the table, she supposed. As she settled onto the chair, a memory suddenly surfaced. Growing up in a series of foster homes, she had never had her own place at a table. Then, after she married Todd, she had begun setting their plates anywhere on the little dinette, sometimes at one end, sometimes at the other. Sometimes they ate on the couch, sometimes the kitchen counter, and once or twice even standing up.

  “From now on you sit here, Mara,” Todd had told her one night, holding out a chair at the table. “This is your place.”

  For the next five years she had sat right there. Her place. How normal it had seemed to face her husband across their laminated table with their plastic plates and their chipped glasses in between. How comfortable.

  “Pierre sends you his regards,” Ermaline announced as she sashayed back into the dining room, her arms laden with a heavy silver salver and covered dishes. “Chicken marsala,” she continued as she swept aside a silver dome. “That means he cooked it in wine—but don’t worry, the alcohol’s all gone. I made sure of that. And here’s some veggies, some of those rolls, a little salad with tee-tiny onions in it, and I’ll bring in the dessert when you’re done. It’s cheesecake. I peeked.”

  She started to spoon the chicken onto Mara’s plate, then she caught herself. “Oops, I forgot.”

  Mara gave her a nod. “It’s okay, Ermaline. Do it the way you always have.”

  With a sigh of relief, the maid loaded Mara’s plate with food. “I’ve been working here a long time, first for old Mr. Barnett and now for young Mr. B. You learn to do things a certain way, you know?”

  Mara nodded. “I was used to things a certain way, too.”

  “I reckon so. You live with someone a while and things kind of fall into a pattern. You get familiar with each other’s habits, and you get real cozy with those ordinary little day-to-day things. I tell you, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost Frank. Me and him go back a long ways. We’ve kind of got ourselves a routine after all these years being married. But, I guess you can’t keep looking back at what you had. You’ve got Abby now, and Mr. B. You’ve got a lot right there.”

  “I don’t think I do have Mr. B.”

  “Well, nobody really has him. He doesn’t think he wants to be had, but that could be remedied.” She clanged the domed lids onto their dishes and swept the tray into her arms. “Want some music? I can turn on the stereo in the living room and pipe it in here.”

  Mara stared down at her meal, then looked at the long empty table. “The intercom is on in the dining room, right? I want to hear Abby.”

  “I’ll double-check it.” Ermaline marched across the room and flipped a few switches. “Yep, you’ll hear the slightest peep. This is the eeriest machine. Never know if someone’s listening in. Okay, well, just ring that little bell if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.” Mara watched as Ermaline vanished into the kitchen.

  She had eaten alone before. Ever since Todd’s death, she had sat alone in her apartment, cooked alone, dined alone, slept alone. Why did this meal feel so strange and uncomfortable?

  Mara inserted a fork and knife into the chicken and cut a few bites. The flavor was delicious, and at the same time the food tasted completely bland. Maybe she still had the baby blues. She should call Sherry and invite her over for the weekend. Mara could show off the baby to her best friend. Sherry could fill her in on things at church, people they both knew, events at the boutique where Sherry worked and the historical museum where Mara used to spend so much time.

  She shouldn’t need Sherry to keep her company. She shouldn’t feel lonely at all. The three members of the household staff were in the kitchen. Abby was just down the hall. And Mara hardly even liked the man whose absence made the house seem empty.

  Chewing on another bite of chicken, she tried to recall what she had hated so much about Brock. He had caused Todd’s death, of course. Well, she had never learned the whole truth about that experience, and she didn’t want to. But there was no doubt Brock was responsible for luring Todd on another reckless adventure, and he had been responsible as Todd’s anchor on the cliffs. She had lost her husband forever because of Brock’s foolhardiness. Abby would never know a father. Mara would never truly be loved again.

  So, why couldn’t she summon up the proper anger toward Brock? Mara stabbed a bite of salad. Because Brock had come to the hospital? Because he’d helped her give birth? Because he’d built a rocking chair? Those things didn’t erase his part in Todd’s death.

  But she couldn’t hate him, either. Maybe she just hadn’t seen enough of the man lately to remember how to despise him. It had been so easy before.

  “Dessert?” Ermaline’s head popped around the door. “Chocolate cheesecake? Pierre puts cherries on top and drizzles chocolate syrup all around.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “It’s delicious. We tasted it already, me and Rosa Maria.”

  “All right.”

  “She wants the cheesecake!” the older woman hollered over her shoulder into the kitchen. “You liked the chicken? Pierre wants to know.”

  “Very good.”

  “She liked it!” Ermaline called back again. “She said it was très bon.”

  Mara watched the maid giggle, her oversize teeth suddenly seeming twice as large. She had to smile in return. “Très bon?”

  “Pierre loves it when people talk French about his food.” Ermaline cleared the dishes. “So what do you think, Mrs. B.? You think you’ll like it here? You think you’ll stay?”

  Mara smoothed her napkin across her lap. “For a while.”

  “Me and the other staff hope you’ll stay. We think you and Mr. B. will get used to each other after a while.”

  “Pretty hard to get used to someone you never see.”

  “Oh, he just drove in. Didn’t I tell you? He’ll probably want some cheesecake.”

  Ermaline sailed out of the room before Mara could call out. Suddenly her mou
th felt like the bottom of an old shoe. Her heart skittered into a crazy dance, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Grabbing the napkin, she debated bolting. She really didn’t want to see Brock after all. She certainly couldn’t bring herself to thank this man she’d always disliked.

  No, she did want to see him. She wanted to understand why her palms had gone damp at the prospect of his appearance in the room. She wanted to know why he wouldn’t be owned by anyone and why he’d locked his heart away. She wanted to feel that strange tingle in the base of her spine when he looked at her. She wanted to hear his voice.

  No, she didn’t! She jumped up and pushed her chair back from the table.

  “Hey, Mara.” Brock walked into the room and took off his hat.

  She stared. He was tall. He was tan. He was black-haired and brown-eyed and handsome. Too handsome. Like a bashful schoolgirl in the presence of the high-school hero, she felt her heart flutter and her cheeks go pink. This happened every time she saw Brock, she reminded herself. It always had, even from the beginning. But when he talked and swaggered and tried to control everything and everybody, she despised him. She really did.

  “You already ate?” he asked.

  “Supper’s at seven, remember?”

  He gave an apologetic smile. “When I’m here, it’s at seven. I ate at the bunkhouse.”

  “You missed the chicken marsala.”

  “I hear it was très bon.”

  “It was.” Mara swallowed. He was holding her with those brown eyes of his. She couldn’t move. Surely she could summon up her familiar dislike of him, couldn’t she? He had let Todd fall. He had destroyed her life. Why on earth was she shaking? It had to be a hormone imbalance. Childbirth did that to a woman.

  “I guess I’ll have some cheesecake,” he said, walking toward her. “Pierre’s is the best.”

  “The pièce de résistance of this meal.”