He nodded. “Sounds nice.”
“I was getting the appetizers ready.”
“I won’t be in your way. I have to go to a party in Las Cruces tonight.”
“I see.” Her expression changed. “Sandy, Stephanie, Justine—that bunch?”
He shrugged. “Probably. Well, I have more stuff to bring in. Go ahead with your party fixings.”
“Sure.” She swung around and hurried out of the kitchen into the living room. He felt as though the light had just gone out of his whole life.
Abby lay tummy-down on a thick, pink blanket spread across the living-room floor, and Mara smiled to herself as the baby’s small round head bobbled up and down. Moonlight gleamed through the window onto a towering pine tree that Ermaline’s husband, Frank, had cut and brought in.
Bowls of popcorn and cranberries sat beside the fire. Boxes of old ornaments that had been in the Barnett family for generations were stacked against a wall. Rosa Maria had dug the decorations out of a storage closet while lamenting how rarely they had been used through the years. Christmas at the ranch had always been more of an off-again, on-again whim than a cherished tradition, the housekeeper told Mara.
Mara had been determined to change that. Now bayberry-and cinnamon-scented candles burned on the mantel. Christmas music drifted through the room. An evergreen wreath hung on the front door. Everything was ready, just perfect…
Swallowing the unexpected lump in her throat, she opened a carton of eggnog and poured the creamy liquid into a huge punch bowl. The aroma of nutmeg swirled upward to mingle with the fragrance of newly cut pine and fresh popcorn. The scents said Christmas…hope, peace, joy. They spoke of past years with a loving husband. They whispered of precious memories, laughter around a spindly tree, a first turkey cooked in a too-small oven, gifts wrapped in newsprint and tied with twine, two voices lifted in carols at a small church. They spoke of Todd.
Why had Brock come back?
Mara blinked at the sting of hurt. She didn’t want Brock. It was his fault this Christmas had pain and aching loss at its core. She might paint a bright veneer of tradition and happiness, but beneath it all she had to face the truth. Her husband was dead.
Sherry had reminded Mara just what kind of man Brock was. Together the two friends had recalled the bullheaded, insensitive womanizer who had always annoyed Mara. Sherry had been right, of course. Brock was no different now.
So he had returned—the focus, the cause of her sorrow. He had been away so long, and she had prayed so hard to forget how he looked. She hadn’t. Her heart had thudded against her ribs as his eyes took her in that afternoon. And all she could think of was how giddily happy she felt to see him…how much she had missed him…how desperately she had longed for his touch, his voice, his kiss.
“Oh, Abby.” She knelt beside her baby and lifted the gurgling infant into her arms. “What am I going to do?”
But there was no time for reflection as the front door burst open. Rosa Maria and her husband, Fernando, brought in a swirl of snowflakes and laughter.
“Feliz navidad!” Fernando exclaimed. The longtime ranch hand always wore a smile. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. B. How’s the little one?”
“Wonderful, Fernando.” Mara greeted the couple as their youngest daughter, Ramona, followed her parents into the house.
In her love for little Abby, Ramona reflected the contentment of a happy upbringing. Just nineteen, she had graduated from high school the past spring, and she was hoping to become a kindergarten teacher. She had confessed a desire for a family of her own one day, but first she wanted to get a college education. After putting an armload of presents under the tree, she hurried to Mara’s side and lifted Abby from her mother’s arms.
Ermaline’s cheerful clan was only moments behind the others. Frank carried in firewood, and the four children had each brought an empty stocking. Mara had promised to fill them to the brim. They swirled around the room, cooing over the baby, sampling the popcorn, chattering with excitement over the prospect of Christmas morning.
Into their midst stepped Pierre and his plump wife, Yvonne, who was as jolly and effusive as her husband was stiff. She hugged everyone in the room, her French accent bouncing off the vigas as she wished the gathering a “Joyeux Noël!” Pierre had brought boxes of pastries and a beautiful cake.
“And where is young Mr. Barnett?” he demanded loudly. “I have seen his car on the road this afternoon.”
“Mr. B. is back?” Rosa Maria turned to Mara. “Ah, que bueno! I thought he would miss this Christmas with the baby.”
“He won’t be here tonight,” Mara said. “He’s going to a—”
“A party in Las Cruces,” Brock finished as he walked into the room. He had changed into a black shirt and jeans, black leather coat and boots. In his somber colors and jet-black hat, he looked anything but merry. “You know the one I always go to. At Joe’s house.”
“Oh, that one.” Again, Rosa Maria looked at Mara. Her eyes softened. “Well, then you must go, too, Mrs. B. We’ll have our little fiesta here while you two go into town.”
“I think it is best,” Pierre intoned, nodding sagely. “The friends will expect it.”
“A husband and wife together—mais oui!” Yvonne clapped her hands. “And when the cats are away, the mice shall play. We will have a lovely time here. Go on with you both!”
Mara shook her head. “Oh, no, really. I don’t want—”
“I’d like for you to come.” Brock held out his hand to her. “We’ll be back before midnight.”
“But Abby—”
“She’ll be fine,” Ramona said, hugging the baby against her cheek. “Go on with him, Mrs. B. There’s enough milk in the freezer to feed the baby for one evening. I’ll take care of her.”
“But I’ve spent all day—”
“Come with me, Mara.” Brock took a step toward her. “Please.”
“Go on, go on!”
Mara stared at Brock’s outstretched hand. It would be a terrible mistake. She knew it even as she placed her palm on his. She was going away with him, leaving her baby, her home, her friends, her security. And she felt as happy as a child on Christmas morning.
Chapter Thirteen
Mara stared in dismay at her ankles as Brock’s Jaguar hummed down the highway toward Las Cruces. In the rush, she hadn’t thought to change her socks as she stepped into a pair of loafers. She was stuck with the bright red ones decorated with white snowmen. Perfect for a party with loving friends…but a fashion faux pas for a gathering of the young elite. Sandy would probably laugh her right out of the room.
Groaning inwardly, Mara lifted her eyes to the man at the wheel. Dark, silent, Brock was absorbed in thoughts he obviously didn’t care to share. Maybe he was regretting the impulse that had led him to invite Mara. He had no reason to be happy about going to a party with a woman wearing snowman socks.
As forbidding as he looked in his black clothes and hat, he had been a different man back at the house. Before they left, he had walked over to Ramona and had taken Abby from the young woman’s arms. While Mara tugged on her coat and gave instructions about the party food, she had observed Brock stroking the baby’s cheek. His brown eyes had gone soft, and the hard set to his jaw had relaxed. Abby had cooed and batted him on the nose, and his mouth curved into a gentle smile. Before he was bustled out of the house by Rosa Maria and Ermaline, Mara had caught sight of Brock returning the baby to Ramona. Bending over the cuddly bundle, he brushed a kiss on Abby’s forehead. And as she gave her daughter a kiss of her own, Mara melted inside.
Did Brock truly care about Abby? Had the little girl really captured his heart? Mara couldn’t help but want his affection to be genuine. Even as she felt her thoughts betray Abby’s birth father, she admitted how deeply she longed for her daughter to know Brock’s love.
“Did Abby look any bigger to you?” she asked into the silence.
Brock glanced at her as if surprised there was someone else in the car. But as the
ir eyes met, his deepened. He shifted gears with a leather-gloved hand and returned his focus to the road.
“She’s grown a lot,” he replied. After a moment he spoke again. “I missed three weeks.”
“I’m sure you’ve been busy. Rosa Maria told me you’re usually gone from the house a lot.”
“Yeah.” He turned on the wiper as snowflakes began to brush the windshield. “This time I shouldn’t have left.”
When Mara decided he wasn’t going to continue the conversation, she leaned back against the headrest and shut her eyes.
“My dad was always gone,” Brock spoke up. “Building fences or checking on his oil wells.”
Mara opened her eyes and observed him. The solemn line of his mouth and the tension in his jaw wrote a message of pain. For the first time, she knew exactly what the man was thinking.
“Your father missed out on more than three weeks. He missed your whole life,” she said. “Your mother did, too.”
“So did yours.”
“Not by choice.”
“No. You’re not missing Abby’s life, are you, Mara?” His eyes skimmed her face. “You’re right there all the time. Todd would be, too. He’d be at her side. He wouldn’t go off for three weeks to build a fence.”
Mara took a deep breath. Brock was speaking honestly. Could she?
“I’m glad you came back, Brock,” she said finally. “You’re good with Abby.”
“I missed her, even though she doesn’t belong to me. And I missed you, Mara.”
“Even though I don’t belong to you, either,” she reminded him.
“You belong with me.”
“Brock, please don’t start.”
“You’ve had three weeks to think over what happened between us out there at the trading post. Three weeks to get more used to motherhood. Three weeks to continue coming to terms with Todd’s death. I want to know where you stand.”
The perfectionist was back, Mara thought as she stared at the snowflakes blowing against the windshield. Brock couldn’t simply let things happen. He always had to manage things, to put it all in order.
“Don’t pressure me, Brock,” she warned him. “I have to think about practical things like the Fort Selden project and Abby’s next pediatrician appointment. I want to forget about the trading post, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. In the past three weeks, I’ve done my best to put what happened between us out of my mind. I tried to convince myself it didn’t mean anything. But this afternoon when I walked into the kitchen and saw you standing there, I knew it hadn’t worked.”
He fell silent for a moment, and Mara’s heart thudded as her blood puddled in her knees.
“I failed in a lot of things,” he went on, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. “I failed Todd. I failed you. I failed Abby. I failed myself. I failed to understand what it was about you and Todd that made your marriage work, that made you both so different and good and clean and right. I failed God. I’m still failing everyone—every day. I know I’m not right for you, Mara. I see that. But as hard as I try to make myself believe there’s no hope for us, I can’t.”
The car had rolled into the outskirts of Las Cruces where Christmas lights cast a multicolored glow on the gathering snow. Brock said nothing, obviously waiting for her response as he steered through a subdivision, past a park and up a gentle hill. Mara concentrated on her red snowman socks. It was impossible to believe he had said what she thought she had heard.
“Brock, I think what happened out at the trading post was just reaction to the situation.” Choosing her words carefully, she tried to make sense of it even as she spoke. “We were alone, and we’d been through so much, and it was…well, it was an impulse, right? It happened on the spur of the moment. It didn’t mean anything.”
He pulled the car up to the curb in front of a stucco home with a sloping front lawn and perfectly trimmed evergreens. Cutting the engine, he leaned back against his seat and let out a breath. Mara could see the muscles in his thighs tighten as he tapped his fingers on them. Suddenly his big shoulders turned, and he pinned his focus on her.
“That kiss didn’t mean anything to you?” he demanded. “Don’t evade the question, and don’t lie to me when you answer.”
Mara shivered at the intensity in his brown eyes. If she was timid, he would devour her. She had no choice but to stand up to him. “Listen, Brock, I’m doing my best to work this out in my mind. The bottom line is, I’m a widow and a mother. I can’t let a kiss mean anything. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”
“But you did. You wanted it.”
She turned away. “Is this Joe’s house?”
“You wanted to kiss me, Mara. I’m no fool. This has been brewing between us for a long time. You know it has.”
“No,” she whispered, and her breath formed a circle of mist on the window. “I’m cold. Let’s go inside.”
“But you loved Todd, and so did I. Neither of us would have betrayed him for the world, and neither of us wants to betray him now. So what do we do?”
“I’m going in.”
“No, Mara!”
“Stop pushing me.”
“Stop running away.”
“I don’t want to feel this!
“But you do. Mara, look at me and tell me you wanted that kiss.”
“Leave me alone, Brock.” She grabbed the door handle and shoved with her shoulder. Stumbling into the snowy night, she heard him slam his door behind her. She ran up the hill, her heart hammering with every step.
This was not happening! She couldn’t allow it. She couldn’t let him say the things he was saying…and she couldn’t feel what she knew she was feeling.
“Mara!” Opening the front door to Mara’s ring, Stephanie hailed her. “This is a surprise. Where’s Brock? We had just about given up on him.”
Mara was engulfed by strangers, men who helped her out of her coat and placed a warm drink in her hands, women who stared appraisingly as they stepped aside to let her pass. She walked beside Stephanie on wooden legs.
“Brock’s coming,” Mara said. “He’s locking the car.”
“Well, come on into the living room. Did you bring the baby?”
Mara shook her head. She glanced behind her to see Brock entering the foyer, a sprinkle of snowflakes scattered across his shoulders and the brim of his hat. Turning her back on him, she trailed Stephanie into a cavernous great room. The home was modern with chrome-and-glass tables, sleek leather sofas, plush gray carpet, recessed lighting. It smelled of expensive perfume and men’s cologne. A gas-log fire glowed between a pair of potted green neon cacti on the hearth.
Mara took an offered chair beside Stephanie, who seemed inclined to want to talk. Around them, fit-looking men and thin women clad in cashmere, silk and leather stood in laughing, talking clusters. The women sparkled with diamonds and gold. The men shone in silver and turquoise.
“So, how is your daughter?” Stephanie began.
“Oh, it’s her!” Sandy in a tight red skirt minced across the floor, with three other women close behind. “I didn’t know you were still with Brock. Ladies, this is Brock’s sweetie. I’m sorry, I forgot your name, honey.”
“Shut up, Sandy. And go easy on that punch.” Stephanie rolled her eyes at the others. “This is Mara Barnett. She’s Brock’s new wife.”
“Wife? Wait a minute, I thought Brock told us it was a monetary arrangement,” Sandy complained loudly. “You know, she gets the dough, he gets the—”
“Excuse me.” Mara stood and gave Stephanie a nod. “I think I’ll take a look around the house.”
“Hey, love the socks!” Sandy said in a stage whisper as Mara brushed past. “Snowmen! Wow, those are cute!”
Sandy solicited Stephanie to join her in giving the others an animated reenactment of their recent visit to the Barnett ranch. Mara wished she could shrink into her snowman socks and disappear completely.
Why had she come? At the ranch house, everyone would be enjoying the eggno
g, sugar cookies and homemade posole she had worked so hard to prepare. They would be stringing popcorn and cranberries, hanging ornaments and singing the Christmas carols she had been looking forward to all day. Abby would be the focus of love as everyone reveled in the contentment and peace of the season. Instead, Mara was stuck at a party with a female Attila the Hun.
To her surprise, she realized that Stephanie had followed her across the great room to the ceiling-high Christmas tree. Decorated in silver and blue, the tree sported chromed icicles interspersed with tinsel. The artificially flocked branches looked as though they were choking in their muffler of goopy fuzz.
“So, how are things going at the ranch, Mara?” Stephanie asked. “Are you getting used to motherhood?”
Mara studied the woman for a moment and concluded she wouldn’t bite. She let out a deep breath and tried to relax her shoulders.
“Motherhood is a slow process,” she said. “I don’t get much sleep at night. My nerves are a little frazzled.”
“Are you, like, nursing your baby and all that?”
Mara smiled. “It’s not hard once you get used to it. Do you plan to have children, Stephanie?”
“Who knows? At this rate, I’ll hit menopause before I get married. That’s Sandy’s problem, you know. She’s so bitter. A lot of us haven’t found the right guy, but we’d really like to start families. So we date around. It’s been a bust for Sandy and me. Most men just aren’t into commitment. I think Sandy was hoping Brock would be it for her. Anybody could have told her differently. A lot of us tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Taking a sip of spiced cider, Mara studied the tree. “Brock’s not the kind to settle down, is he?”
“You ought to know that by now. He’s a smooth talker, and when he turns those big brown eyes on a woman, there’s no holding back, you know? But the man doesn’t have a heart. Or if he does, he’s not about to give it away.”
“Sounds like you’ve been burned.”
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