by Ruth Wind
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MEANT TO BE MARRIED
Ruth Wind
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Contents:
Prologue
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16
Epilogue
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Prologue
^»
They knew Sarah's father would be angry.
No, not simply angry. Angry was a thunderstorm crackling over the valley, pouring torrents of rain into the arroyos and over the fields of sage; fierce but quickly spent. Angry was a bee sting. Angry was a bull behind the confines of a barbed wire fence, being teased by children with a red bandanna.
Her father's fury would be worse.
They drove through the night in Eli's battered sedan, the stars overhead clear and bright as they left Santa Fe and headed into the northern mountains on the narrow road toward home. They held hands, silent, each trying not to imagine what would happen when they got there. Trying not to imagine the scenes they would face.
Sarah could not avoid it. The closer they got, the threadier her heartbeat grew, the more tightly she clutched Eli's long, slim hand, that hand she loved so much.
Her father's wrath would be wilder than a thunderstorm. It would be like the torrents of hail that sometimes came in late spring, beating young plants to death. It would be a nest of rattlesnakes, striking virulently at a wary intruder. Her father would be like the bull set free, tearing the fence down with no thought for what the barbs would do to his hide, set only on vengeance.
Sick, she put her face to Eli's arm, and as if he knew what she thought, he lifted his hand to her face. "Will he hurt you?"
"No." Not physically. Never, in all her life, had he ever raised a hand to her.
But whatever they had expected, it was not the sudden flare of police sirens and lights that roared to life when they crossed the city line, the three cars that surged forward when the sedan passed, as if they had been waiting…
Eli swore in Spanish, words she only vaguely understood as profane. She knew he was scared. For what seemed an endless time, he only stared in the rearview mirror at the trail of police, flashing red against the black, black night. "They knew we were coming," he said softly. "Sarah, they knew."
Sarah could not even find the breath to whisper. There was a noise in her ears like a roar of rain. It was her fault the police were here, she realized. Sarah had called her mother. So she wouldn't worry any longer. So she wouldn't have to pace the floors again tonight, as Sarah knew she'd been doing since they ran away three days ago.
Eli pulled over and turned to her. His dark eyes were unreadable as he took her by the arms. "Sarah," he said, a broken word.
With a sob, she flung her arms around him, burying her face against his neck, feeling his hair grow moist with her breath. She clung to him, weeping because this was worse, so much worse than they had expected.
Fiercely he gripped her face in his hands and kissed her. Deeply. Then he let her go as a cop with a gun came to the window, and a voice over a megaphone said, "Elias Santiago, get out of the car with your hands up."
Sarah wanted to grab him, to pull him back into the car and take off – but he slipped from her grip, kicking open the door with his foot, his hands raised before he even left the car, so there would be no mistake.
Oh, God, please no mistakes.
Instantly he was approached by a group of dark-uniformed police, who swarmed him like ants.
Sarah scrambled out and cried, "Don't hurt him!" as they turned him and flung his body hard over the trunk of the car. Handcuffs flashed in the wildly surrealistic light, and Sarah covered her mouth with her hands, knowing the bull had had his revenge.
Then Eli was gone, whisked away, and she couldn't help crying out his name, one time. "Eli!"
He didn't look at her, only stared forward, his face blank as the police car roared away.
* * *
Chapter 1
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Twelve years later
To celebrate her thirtieth birthday, Sarah Greenwood resolutely shoved away her depression and treated herself to a shopping spree. She bought an elegant red wool suit and a pair of Italian shoes without even blinking at the price tags, then walked the drizzly, crowded streets of London until she saw an appropriately cozy bistro, and asked for a table by the window. She ordered a very good glass of merlot and the plowman's platter – taking pleasure in the green cheese and strawberries and crusty bread, buttering the latter heavily without sparing a moment's thought for the calories.
Afterward, she leaned back and expansively ordered a second glass of wine and watched the passersby, taking stock of her life thus far. Mentally she ticked off the pluses: an excellent job that had provided wealth, a modicum of renown and respect, and world travel. Here she was, a young and healthy woman in one of the most wonderful cities in the world, staying in a fine bed-and-breakfast near the Thames, and with money enough for whatever she wished in the way of material goods.
Who could ask for more?
A small voice, the same voice that had tsked over the butter on her bread and the second glass of wine, said nasally, How about a friend? Or a husband, or anyone to share this day with?
Sarah took another tiny sip of her wine. She had friends. Plenty of them.
Acquaintances, the voice countered.
Sarah ignored it. She was in a profession that required people to be driven to succeed. Everyone she knew was as driven – and successful – as Sarah herself. They worked friends and lovers in as time permitted.
What lovers? the voice sneered.
A sore point, actually. She didn't meet men she wanted to date, much less sleep with. There had been only two she'd permitted into her bed over the past decade, and both had shown a distressingly serious wish to be married shortly thereafter, so she'd sadly let each of them go.
What about—
To cut off the voice, Sarah flagged the waitress and ordered cheesecake. "It's my birthday," she said aloud, embarrassed at ordering so much rich food in public.
The waitress congratulated her and hurried off to get the cake. The voice happily drowned out, Sarah settled back once more, letting the conversation of the diners wash over her pleasantly. English accents always made everything sound so much more cultured, so calm. She heard the rolling sound of Arabic coming from one corner, and German from another – she was, after all, in the middle of London at the height of the tourist season.
And then, from a table not very far away, she heard the sound of home. Could it be? She did not look over her shoulder, even though it was quite tempting. Instead, she narrowed in on the voices and listened, picking out the lilting rise and fall of syllables, inflected Spanish and hints of Indian cadence. English as it was spoken on the New Mexico plateau.
Home.
Her careful charade shattered, and her blues came back in a fierce rush. The truth was, she would rather have had dental surgery than spend this day all alone. She was sick and tired of traveling. She was homesick for the Taos valley, and people who were real, and a life that still had meaning when she wasn't at work. Even work, truthfully, had had little joy lately.
It was time to go home. Her father's health had been poor the past couple of months, and her mother had asked her several times to come for a visit. Standing in sudden decision, she put money on the table to cover everything, and hurried out.
* * *
Four days later Sarah gripped her bag tightly in her left hand and followed a plump woman down a pathway that hugged a long adobe wall. She was conscious of the August heat, white-hot sunlight pouring down from a turquoise sky to sear the back of her neck and the part in her hair, putting dampness on her back and between her breasts. Sh
e was aware of the weight of her bag – she had not really known what or how much to bring. She would not, she vowed, put on a pair of jeans again for a least a month. Taos was much hotter than she remembered. Even for August.
The path opened at last into a three-sided courtyard. "Here we are!" Mrs. Gray sang out. "Isn't it lovely?"
Glad for the opportunity to set the bag down for even a minute, Sarah let it go with a plop and straightened, stretching heir back. She brushed a loose, limp tendril of hair from her face, and the view suddenly penetrated her weary brain.
"Oh!" she said softly.
Nothing could be further from the London world from which she'd flown. The courtyard was filled with cosmos, a riot of pink and white and lacy green against sand-colored walls. On three sides was the house, fronted by a deep gallery furnished with wooden benches in the old Mexican style, and pots of purple and red petunias, thriving in the coolness of the shadowed recesses. The windowsills and door were painted turquoise.
On the fourth side of the square courtyard there was a low rounded wall and a gate, and beyond – a breathtaking view of the valley. Without thought, Sarah stepped forward, a strange pain deep in her chest. "I always forget," she said, her hand fluttering up to her throat, "how it looks."
The woman smiled in understanding.
From the gate, the hill fell steeply away, revealing wide green fields bounded by violet mountains, round and furry-looking in this light. A tangle of sweet peas against a fence gave a splash of bright pink, but the rest was all green and blue, all shades, every possible hue of both.
Faintly dizzy, Sarah looked at the woman. "It's perfect," she said.
"How long has it been since you were here?"
Sarah didn't have to think about it. "Not counting over-nighters, almost twelve years." Even the overnighters had been scarce, maybe one or two a year. As few as she could get away with. "Is it especially hot, or am I remembering wrong?"
"It's hot this summer." The woman waved for Sarah to follow her as she unlocked the door to the old house. "And what brings you this time? You studying something?"
"No." Sarah ducked into the coolness of the living room. "My father is ill. I've come home to help my mother take care of him."
"Oh, I'm real sorry, honey." The woman patted her arm. "You're a good daughter to do that. Not all children would nowadays."
It made Sarah feel guilty to accept the praise. It wasn't as if she had rushed home the moment she heard he was sick. Picking up a blue glass tumbler, she held it out toward the light streaming in through the small southern windows. "Maybe," she said, and smiled wryly. "But don't think too highly of me. I should have been here two months ago when he first got sick, but I couldn't get away."
"Who is your mother, sweetie? Maybe I know her."
In a town of four thousand, that was entirely likely. "Mabel Greenwood."
"Greenwood!" Her face lit. "Well, I've been going to church with your mother for eight years. Isn't that something! And you're the famous photographer. Oh, she brags about you, all right." The face split into a huge smile. "All those New York models, all that glamour."
"I enjoy it." A lie, but a white one. She had enjoyed it. Once upon a time.
"Have you ever met Cindy Crawford?"
Sarah nodded, and to preempt the next question, added, "She's as nice as you'd imagine." That was what people wanted to hear, that the celebrities they admired were good, kind people – just as they thought they would be themselves if they ever hit the big time.
"Oh, that's something." Mrs. Gray leaned forward conspiratorially. "We don't lack for celebrities around here, either. Last winter I saw Amy Irving having breakfast."
Sarah was loath to rush her, but she was desperately jetlagged, and she wanted to be able to collect herself, come to terms with being home, before she had to confront the reality of being home. It had been one thing to decide, on a gloomy day in London, that she needed to heal the rift with her family. It was quite another to find herself actually standing on home ground and dealing with having to face her parents – and everything else.
Scaredy-cat, whispered her voice.
She made a soft sound, brushing her hair out of her face, and stuck her hand out. "Thank you, Mrs. Gray. This is going to be perfect."
The old woman took the hint. "Sure thing, honey. If you need anything, just holler. My number is posted on the wall. The house is yours as long as you need it."
"I thought it was only free for a month."
"Leave that up to me." With a casual wave, she let herself out, closing the heavy door.
In the blessed silence left behind, Sarah pulled the pins out of her hair, simultaneously kicking her shoes off. Thick adobe walls kept the heat outside where it belonged and she looked in the fridge for something cold to drink. Finding a bottle of water, she took it out and wandered the rooms of the vacation cottage she'd rented. The main room, a combination kitchen and living room, opened into a bedroom on one side of the courtyard. The third wing was across a small covered breezeway. Curious, she padded barefoot across the bricked path, and into the double doors on the other side.
On the threshold she paused, feeling again that strange thick pain in her chest. The room was a studio, probably originally built by one of the artists who'd flocked here in the twenties and thirties. The whole north wall was glass brick, allowing a cool, clear light in. The two windows to the south were tall and narrow, and showed the same view of the valley as the courtyard. At one end was an open door that led to the small darkroom Sarah had wanted.
Sarah closed her eyes, wondering why that simple, familiar view made her feel so emotional. Why that pain kept sticking itself between her ribs. Maybe, she thought with a sigh, she was more disturbed by her father's health than she'd admitted.
Or maybe it was harder to come home – or leave home – than she'd allowed herself to acknowledge. Firmly she closed the doors and headed back into the main house to take a shower and nap. She'd promised her mother she'd be there for supper.
* * *
Thunderheads rolled in over the valley in the late afternoon, coming simultaneously from the south and west to knot up over town. Eli Santiago, whistling tunelessly as he ambled back to his truck after a meeting with a graphic designer who would create new packages for Santiago Herb Teas, looked up at the dark sky gratefully. The clouds made the air cooler almost instantly, and a good rain would be excellent for the crops.
From the corner of his eye he caught a shimmer of golden hair, bright against the grayness. In the same spirit of genial admiration he'd given nature's view, he turned to get a better look at the woman striding up the hill across the street. A tourist, probably, heading back to one of the bed-and-breakfasts hidden among the narrow, twisting streets that led away from the plaza. It was hard to see her features, but the body was nice indeed, slim and long legged, with narrow shoulders and softly moving breasts under a gray T-shirt. Her calves showed that walking was nothing casual for her, and he imagined that thick blond hair swinging in a ponytail as she marched around a lake in Chicago or California.
Tugging his keys out of his front jeans pocket, he grinned to himself. One of the assets of living in a tourist town was the women.
Buoyed by the successful meeting and the sexy walk of the woman, he leapt into his three-quarter-ton GMC, his pride and joy, and started it up, taking pleasure in the rich rumbling sound of the engine. He punched a cassette into the stereo and turned it up loud, cheerfully singing along with U2.
Luck was with him, and he made it to the corner without fighting a stream of cars for the privilege. With a grin, he noticed the blonde was stuck at the light along with him, and he admired her legs at close range. Damned nice thighs – tanned and muscular. Delectable breasts, full but not overblown. Good hair, too, a thick honey and sunshine that lay against her shoulders in a smooth line that fell forward to hide her face as she examined something on her shoe.
All at once, Eli was struck with piercing recognition. He wasn't q
uite sure what brought it on – maybe the crook of her knee, or the trio of silver bracelets that slid down her tanned forearm, or the angle of her head – but suddenly he realized she was no ordinary tourist.
Sarah.
Her name tangled over his nerves, and a sensation of heat and fear and cold rejection washed through him, all in seconds.
As if she felt his gaze, she lifted her head suddenly, frowning, and spied him, his arm hanging out of the open window of the truck. Their eyes met for a long, long moment, hers that strange pale blue-gray that had always slain him. The expression was hard to read: surprise, of course, but some little flame of something else, too. He didn't like to think what showed in his.
For one fleeting second, staring into those once beloved eyes, Eli was again eighteen and painfully, wildly in love. Remembered emotion swelled through him, that fierce and passionate and faithful love that had fallen to such bitter ashes. The hatred that had burned in him since – for Sarah, but even more, for her father.
He pressed his hand to his ribs and felt an urge to cross himself, as if against the evil eye.
Behind him, someone honked, and it startled both of them. Sarah looked at the driver honking. Eli looked at the light and saw it was green, and the man honked behind him again. He didn't know what else to do, and gunned the truck around the corner, coals burning in his gut.
He didn't look back, didn't stop as he'd half considered doing. He simply drove on, trying to put the startled pale eyes out of his mind, trying to keep the memories far, far away.
Some things were better left undone.
* * *
As she watched the big black truck roar off, Sarah found her hands were shaking. So were her knees, knees that wobbled as she crossed the street under the darkening sky. It took great effort to hold her head at a natural angle, and as soon as she was off the main drag, she halted beneath a cottonwood and leaned on a smooth adobe wall, pressing her palms and forehead against the coolness.