Now she was asking herself whether she could give her heart to Brock. And she was asking how ready Brock was to give up his own heart. Not only to Mara, but to God.
As he studied the fire, he considered the question. He had married Mara. That showed a certain level of commitment, didn’t it? But they had based their marriage on financial terms, nothing more. Another crumbling foundation. Any fortress built on it would crack and topple in time.
Was he willing to turn over his whole life, his dreams, his future to God? Mind, body, heart. Mara talked with such certainty about the seriousness of giving her heart away. He wasn’t even sure he knew what had become of his heart in the years he’d spent wandering, lost. Did he even have one to give?
Could he commit the rest of his life to Mara? To one woman? To a life so different from the one he had tried to create for himself? It meant letting go of everything. And grabbing on to something else. To faith. To hope. To love.
Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure how. Mara said she had turned over her life to Christ. She had given Him control of her world. Todd had urged Brock to do the same thing. Make a decision. Give up. Surrender. What did those words even mean?
“I guess we won’t have to worry about you hitting the singles bars,” he teased.
She looked up at him and smiled. “Not a chance. I’m not single.”
“Whew.” He brushed at his forehead in a mock gesture of relief.
“Brock, don’t joke about this. I’m serious.”
“Always serious.” He laid one hand on her damp sock. “I like these snowmen, by the way.”
“Thank you. Sandy thoughtfully brought them to everyone’s attention. I momentarily had the fashion spotlight at the party.”
He winced. “There’s nothing more prickly than a jealous woman. I guess Sandy figured out where I stand with you.”
Mara’s eyebrows rose. “Where do you stand with me, Brock?”
“As close as I can get.” He looked into her face. “Something occurs to me, Mara. You tell me you gave your heart to God and to Todd and to Abby. Have you considered what each of them might think about you and me?”
“Constantly. Every time I imagine how Todd would feel if he knew I had kissed you, I get a terribly guilty sensation. It’s like I’m being unfaithful to him.”
“I know. This evening after I saw you in the kitchen, I went into my room and turned his picture around to face the wall.”
“Are we wrong to feel attracted to each other?”
“Attracted? I’d call it a little stronger than that.” He picked up her foot, set it on his knee, and began to rub. “I don’t know whether it’s wrong or right. I just know that even though I would never betray my friend, Todd isn’t around anymore. He’s gone, Mara. At some point, we both have to get used to that. And when you think about it, Todd had the most generous heart the good Lord ever created. Would he expect you to live the rest of your life grieving him?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.” He studied her. “Who would Todd rather see come together than the two people he loved the most in this world?”
“Maybe…”
“Then there’s God. Now, I don’t claim to know a lot about religious matters, but it doesn’t take a preacher to figure out that life moves according to a plan that’s bigger than any of us.”
“You believe that?”
“Sure. You told me you’ve given your life to God, Mara. You reckon He would leave you high and dry? I mean, you lost your husband—do you think God would want you to be unhappy forever?”
“God doesn’t want me miserable. But I’m not sure you qualify as the right person to—”
“And what about Abby?” he inserted. “Do you want your daughter to grow up without a man in her life? Don’t you want her to have someone to look up to and count on?”
Mara caught her breath. “What are you saying?”
He slid his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her toward him. Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss. As he held her, she clutched his shoulders.
“Brock,” she whispered. “Oh, Brock.”
“I’m trying to wait for you, woman.” His voice was raspy. “I’ll hold you all night and every night for the next ten years without touching you if that’s what you want. But it’s killing me.”
“Don’t talk, Brock. Don’t make me think.”
“Then come here and kiss me.”
She did, and with her kiss she slid her fingers through his hair and let her lips explore his whole face, his neck, his hands.
“I want to know you as my wife, Mara,” he murmured against her ear. “Every day and night for the past three weeks, I thought about you. I told myself I had put you away in a safe place, but I was wrong. You were right there, pervading all my dreams.”
“I’ve tried so hard to remember that I hate you. To resent you. To hold on to my bitterness.”
“Please don’t hate me, Mara,” he whispered, fighting to keep from losing control. “Do you know how difficult this is?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Oh, Brock, I want you so much.”
At her confession, his heart slammed against his ribs. She did want him. He could see it in the heavy-lidded look in her eyes. As he kissed her, Brock knew if he pushed hard enough, he could have her.
But he had begun to want more. He wanted something beautiful and right. Something holy.
If she gave in to temptation tonight, would she hate him tomorrow? After she’d had time to think…and pray? Would she feel conned? Would she believe he had manipulated her, used her?
“Mara,” he said her name again as he set her away and locked his hands together in his lap. “I don’t want you to wonder tomorrow if I qualify in God’s book of approved men, because I know I don’t. Not yet. And I don’t want you to wake up and think you betrayed Todd. Don’t you see? I want your heart, too.”
She touched the side of his face as wonder filled her eyes. As if struggling to find words, she shook her head. “You’ve always amazed me, Brock.”
“And anyway,” he said gently, “I think I hear a little girl who’s hungry for her midnight snack.”
Mara turned her attention toward the intercom. The soft snuffling of a waking baby filtered through the room. The little whimpers quickly grew in volume.
“I’d better go,” she said.
Unwilling to release her, he caught her hand. “Mind if I come along?”
“Might as well. Someone once told me Abby needs a man in her life.”
He grinned. “So does her mom.”
Mara slipped out of his arms and started toward the hall. “I know,” she said softly.
Chapter Fifteen
After leaving Mara and Abby snoozing in the nursery, Brock returned to his room and discovered a stack of mail Rosa Maria had placed on his desk while he was gone. Letters, magazines and bills lay in a neat pile. Nothing of interest caught his eye until he spotted the address of the United States Bureau of Land Management.
He opened the envelope and scanned the single sheet of paper inside. The Bureau had decided to terminate Todd’s contract. A terse message from the regional director, a Dr. Stephen Long, stated the services of Rosemond Restoration were no longer required at Fort Selden or the other historic forts in southern New Mexico.
Frowning, Brock read the rest of the letter. He knew it had been addressed to him because of his contact with Long around the time of his marriage to Mara. Under financial stress and concerned about her pregnancy, she had accepted his offer to negotiate with the BLM on behalf of Todd’s company.
But the contents of this letter told him Mara must have written the agency about her plans to run the business herself. Dr. Long responded that he could not accept her request to resume work on the reconstruction project, and he warned that her doing so would invalidate the contract that had been made with her late husband.
Frustrated by what he saw as a lack of vision, Brock sat at his desk and turned the contents o
f the letter over in his mind. Finally he made the decision to keep the news to himself until he could work out a solution. Instinct told him Mara would be angry if he didn’t discuss the situation with her right away, but he didn’t want to risk throwing anything in the path of their growing relationship.
Besides, Mara might have received the same letter. Maybe she was processing the news even now. If Brock brought it up, she might start feeling cornered—trapped by the circumstances in her life. He couldn’t let her withdraw. Not now.
Brock awoke on Christmas morning to a blanket of snow thicker and whiter than a newly washed wool fleece. He lay alone in his huge bed and stared out the window for a long time, thinking about the previous evening—the party, the trip home, the letter from the BLM. He grimaced at the last thought.
Was he being unfair to Mara by not talking to her about the letter? He had always been the kind of man who fixed things himself. Alone. He repaired broken chairs and wobbly tables. He mended fences and nailed shingles on barns. Once already he had stepped into Mara’s life to fix a bad situation. He could do it again…as his gift to her.
Brock settled back on his pillow, arms behind his head. Right after the new year began, he would call the BLM and deal with the matter. He would see to it that the Bureau honored the contract, and he would preserve and build on the goodwill growing between Mara and himself. He would force himself to hold his physical desire for her in check. Like a teenager on his first date, he would be careful only to slip his arm around her shoulders or take her hand or give her an occasional peck on the cheek. It wouldn’t be easy, but he could do it.
Recalling their conversation from the night before, Brock realized how easily he had slipped into his familiar pattern of thinking this morning. He would take the BLM situation in hand. He would control his emotions. He would do it all.
Mara had told him she gave her whole little world to Christ—mind, body, heart. If that was true, then how could she ever belong to anyone but God? Could Brock possibly hope to have a part in Mara’s life?
Slinging back the covers, he stepped out of bed and threw on his robe. Christmas morning—a celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. For Brock, it had always been a day for giving and receiving gifts. But he knew it meant more than that to Mara. She would be thinking about the holiness of the day and the One who held her life in His hands.
Brock stepped to the window, leaned his arms on the sill and watched the falling snow. He had always believed in God. In Jesus, too. But he recalled how Todd had urged him to relinquish control of his whole life. It was an issue that demanded a decision, his friend had insisted, and Brock needed to choose surrender.
Could he do that? Did he want to? Did God want him to? The last question cinched the matter.
Straightening, Brock clamped his teeth together and nodded. There. He would just do it. Not for Mara. Not for Todd or Abby. He would give up control, because he knew God was his only hope for filling the emptiness inside.
Things might not go better, as Mara had warned him. But he wouldn’t be alone. He wouldn’t be trying to manage everything and everybody and making a mess of it. Just as important, his priorities would change, and it was past time for that to happen. No more trying to fill the empty pit with business deals, women, adventure, thrills. The Spirit of God would be inside him, and that would be the best foundation a man could have.
Hands against the window frame, he bowed his head. “I give up,” he said. “I’ve botched the whole thing, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Take it all, God. Take me. Take my life. Make me more like Jesus and less like Brock Barnett. Erase who I was and change me into the man You want me to be.” He nodded. “I ask this in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”
Lifting his head, he realized he was looking through a mist. Odd that tears should come when suddenly everything seemed so much clearer.
“Brock?” Cradling Abby, Mara stepped into the kitchen, surprised to find him there already. It was early, and they had stayed up so late the night before.
“Hey there,” he said, his voice gentle. “How are my two Christmas angels this morning?”
She smiled. “I just nursed Abby, and she’s so drowsy I almost took her back to bed. But I’d put her in the velvet dress you gave her when she was born, and I couldn’t wait to take her to the tree. Can you come?”
“Sure.”
Mara swallowed as Brock stood and picked up his coffee mug. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt, and as he stretched, she thought of the pumas that prowled southern New Mexico.
“I wonder what Santa Claus brought me,” he said as they walked down the long hall to the great room.
“What did you ask him for?”
“Dangerous question, Mrs. Barnett.”
Mara tried to control her blush by concentrating on settling herself in front of the tree and situating Abby in her arms. She knew what Brock wanted. It was the same thing she wanted. But every time she had stirred during a restless night, she had prayed to be delivered from this agony. She could not accept that they were truly married. Not in the eyes of God. Brock wasn’t God’s plan for her. He couldn’t be. He was too rough, too wild, too materialistic. He didn’t love the Lord the way Todd had—the way Mara knew her husband must. And that meant she had to get out of his house. Fast.
“Here you are,” she said, placing a gift on his lap. “I made this while you were away.”
As she held Abby, he unwrapped the afghan she had crocheted for him in shades of New Mexico—the purple of a mountain sunset, the sage green of the prickly pear cactus, the dusty brown of the high desert. Brock ran his hand over the careful stitches that undulated across the coverlet like rolling hills.
“It’s beautiful,” he said with a breathtaking smile that made her heart sing. “Thank you, Mara. And here’s something for you.”
Opening her gift, she saw a small box carefully crafted and polished. It had a hinged lid and a small, brass clasp. “Did you make this, Brock? It’s lovely!”
“I used woods from the ranch—mesquite, cedar and pine—sandwiched to show their different shades of brown. I thought you might like to keep jewelry in it. I’m afraid it’s not big enough to hold much.”
Mara gazed at the box, too overwhelmed to speak. He had made this just for her? Like the rocker, it revealed something about him she had tried too hard to ignore. Brock was more than a reckless man on a joyride through life. He was an artist. A craftsman. He cared about his ranch, the gifts of nature, beauty. He cared about her.
And he had made this for her jewelry. She looked down at the hand that held the box. Her left hand.
“Is the box too small?” he asked. “I had a little trouble with that hinge right there. Maybe I should have bought you something in Santa Fe. Mara?”
A tear slid down her cheek as she placed the gift in her lap and turned her hand first one way and then the other, front and back. Unable to explain the emotion filling her heart, she slipped off the wedding ring Todd had given her. She put it inside the box, closed the lid and fastened the clasp.
She had worn the ring every minute of every day since she had been married to Brock. She had worn it through labor and delivery. She had worn it washing dishes and playing in the snow. Now it was time to put it in a special place, in a box crafted by Todd’s best friend. It was time to let it go.
Unable to look at Brock, Mara began opening his second gift. This one was for Abby. Brock shifted uncomfortably as she tore away the wrapping paper to find the little Popsicle-stick chest Todd had given to him so many years before. Stuck on with white school glue, fragile shells clung to the bare wood.
“I thought Abby might like to have something from her father, even though she’s too young to understand,” Brock explained. “And I left my rock collection inside, too.”
“Her father,” Mara choked out. Suddenly the word meant more than she had ever realized. Todd was the man who had given Abby life—her father in the traditional sense. But Brock…whose boyhood rock c
ollection included bits of obsidian and a chunk of quartz…he was the man who could give Abby a future. He was the man who could teach Abby the names of the stones, how to ride a horse, how to build a fence. He could coach her soccer team, take her out for ice cream, teach her to drive a car, buy her velvet Christmas dresses, give her away at her wedding. Brock might be Abby’s father, too, if Mara could let him.
“Brock, the box is…it’s…” Tears rolling down her face, she shook her head and hugged Abby tightly.
“Mara, I’m here.” Brock went to her and wrapped his arms around her.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”
When she looked into his eyes, she saw a man she longed to call husband. His lips were warm as his mouth tenderly claimed hers. She slipped her arms around his neck, and with the baby nestled between them, she gave herself to his words of promise.
But when Abby began to whimper, Brock straightened and turned away from Mara. “I can do this,” she heard him mutter. “Not on my own.”
He grabbed the nearest present. “Here’s something from Pierre. I guarantee this’ll be for the kitchen. He always gives me something like a pastry crimper or a noodle maker.”
Mara brushed her damp cheek and tried to concentrate. “I didn’t know you liked to make noodles.”
“I don’t,” he said. “Pierre likes to make noodles.”
But when he unwrapped the large square box, it wasn’t a kitchen tool at all. It was a heavy, leather-bound family Bible. Brock opened the cover and turned to the first gold-edged page. The family tree had been inscribed in beautiful black calligraphy.
“Abigail Rosemond Barnett.” He read aloud the central inscription complete with Abby’s birthdate. Then he read the words beneath the baby’s name. “Mara Rosemond Barnett…Mother.”
When he fell silent, Mara leaned against his shoulder. “Brock Davis Barnett,” she said softly. “Father.”
Brock had never known the kind of peace and comfort the following days held. Kept away from his work by the snowstorm that had covered the plains, Brock spent hours with Mara and Abby. Together Mara and he bathed and diapered, rocked and cuddled the growing baby girl. Abby blossomed in the attention.
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