It had none. The house was barely a skeletal hut, its corrugated roof torn away in spots, its walls—adobe slapped onto wooden beams—disintegrating, its front door gone and the door frame rotting. Scruffy grass grew in dust-caked tufts across the front yard, short and blanched near the remains of a stone fire pit, taller and greener near the water pump. The sun baked the ground mercilessly, fading the scene to a bleak pallor.
Across the road was another shack in only marginally better shape. A woman hunched over a cauldron on her fire pit, stirring its contents with a stick while steam rose from the pot. “Is she cooking?” Emmie asked, puzzled about why anyone would cook such a huge pot of stew, unless she was planning to feed an army battalion.
“Laundry,” Michael guessed, yanking the parking brake and turning off the engine.
A bone-thin girl came out of the house, her eyes wide and her mouth pinched. She darted toward the woman and hid behind her skirt. Chickens cackled raucously at the intrusion of two strangers into their afternoon. A swaybacked dog whimpered and limped over to a patch of shade beneath a wood wagon.
“Wait here,” Michael whispered as he got out of the Jeep.
Emmie watched anxiously as he crossed the road to talk to the woman. A few words drifted back to her, but she learned less from them than from Michael’s body language. He leaned toward the woman, bowed so he wouldn’t loom so tall above her. He tilted his head to listen, nodded, looked compassionate. After a minute, he returned to the Jeep, chased by a brown rooster that seemed to view him as a threat, given the way it squawked and scampered and flapped its wings indignantly.
Michael continued around the Jeep to Emmie’s side and helped her out. “This—” he gestured toward the abandoned shack “—is where my grandparents lived, where my father grew up.”
Emmie swallowed. She had seen poverty in Virginia, but nothing like this. Even if she added a solid roof and walls and a door in her imagination, the shack was pitiful. She approached it slowly, unable to picture a family growing and thriving in such a wretched dwelling.
He angled his head toward the woman boiling her laundry across the road. “She told me the place has been empty for five years. The people who moved in after my grandparents left brought nothing but trouble with them. The woman finally ran off with a flashy man passing through, and her husband had drunken rages for a while, but then he took off, also. The place has sat abandoned ever since.” He glanced over his shoulder at the woman and smiled. “I think the missing pieces from this roof are sitting on her roof. If I looked harder, I bet I’d find the front door doing service in her house, too.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” Emmie asked. “I mean—it’s like a desecration of your father’s home.”
He tossed back his head and laughed, then tested one of the splintered beams holding what remained of the house upright “Let her help herself to what she needs. There’s nothing worth saving here. I told her she should use what’s left of the walls for firewood.”
Emmie circled the house. The side wall was a mess of ragged boards and paper-thin pasteboard. The inside appeared to be one room.
“Two,” he said, answering her unvoiced question. He climbed through a gaping hole in the wall and extended his hand to her, helping her through. “This front area was the kitchen. The back was the bedroom. My father and his brothers and sisters slept there. My grandparents slept in the kitchen.”
Her eyes filled with tears of shame for having grown up in wealth when so many in the world had so little. Tears for Michael’s father, whom she’d never even met, because this hovel had been his home. Tears for Michael because he’d been one of San Pablo’s children, even if he had been born in America. Michael, though, was one of those children who had outgrown his ancestors. He’d gotten an education. He was a professor.
But this was where he’d come from.
She picked her way around the fallen bits of wood, moving in and out of the thin shafts of sunlight that leaked in through the holes in the roof. She was ashamed of herself for having doubted that Michael’s colleague, Max, was really a research assistant. Michael didn’t look like someone this horrid place would have produced. He was strong and tall and healthy, his eyes bright and his mind even brighter. She shouldn’t judge any man by his appearance or his environment. She should only be grateful that Michael’s father had given his son a chance for a better life by leaving San Pablo for California.
She felt Michael move close behind her. He looped his arms around her waist, pulled her back against him and rested his chin on the crown of her head. “I didn’t bring you here to depress you,” he murmured.
“Why did you bring me here?”
He considered his reply. “I have wonderful memories of my grandparents’ home,” he said, not a trace of irony in his voice. “My father and I used to come down here every year for the summer. He’d spend the visit trying to convince his family to move to America, and I’d learn about the land in my blood. That was what he called this place—‘the land in my blood.”’ He sighed, his breath ruffling her hair. “I have good memories.”
And he’d brought her here so she could share this place with him. She didn’t quite understand how such a dismal setting could evoke good memories, but having seen this place, this land in his blood, made her feel close to him, closer than his arms holding her against him, closer than she’d felt last night when they’d danced and kissed and ached for each other.
They stood in the shack for an endless minute. Dust motes danced in the light spilling in. Michael savored his memories in silence, and Emmie savored the feel of his arms around her. Without having to speak, they both knew how long to stand there and when to leave.
Their silence lasted as they climbed into the Jeep. The engine growled, the dog under the wagon whined and the rooster stormed across the road after them, forcing Michael to yank the steering wheel sharply to avoid hitting him. Emmie twisted in her seat for one last look at Michael’s grandparents’ house. Through the plumes of dust kicked up by the Jeep’s tires, it appeared even more desolate.
She turned back and glimpsed Michael. He looked peaceful, even pleased by his pilgrimage. His smile was enigmatic, but his chin was high, his eyes luminous as he maneuvered around pits and stones in the curving road.
She felt a pressure in her chest, something swollen inside her. Respect for this brave, proud man. Respect mixed with love.
The road began its slow, winding descent from the foothills. The houses they passed stood closer together and appeared a bit more substantial. Fences penned the livestock; no rambunctious rooster was going to charge across the street at them in this residential district. He drove slowly, very slowly. The Jeep alternately coasted and groaned.
Gradually it dawned on Emmie that something was wrong with the car. The engine wasn’t groaning—it was revving, overworking. She watched Michael’s right hand long enough to notice that he hadn’t moved the gear stick.
“Is the car all right?” she asked.
He made a sound that was half a laugh, half a snort. “I can’t shift out of first,” he told her. “No big deal.”
“The engine sounds weird.”
“Fortunately we’re heading downhill. We can roll most of the way. If we pick up a little speed, I might be able to pop the gear.”
The streets in this part of town were too congested to pick up much speed, though. Children were celebrating their day of rest by doing anything but resting—playing tag and soccer in the streets, riding bicycles and skateboarding on homemade boards constructed of plywood and skate wheels. If Michael let the car accelerate, he might hit one of the children.
She moved her gaze to his knees, noting the smooth play of his feet on the pedals. Whether or not the clutch was throwing a tantrum, she had utter faith that Michael would get them back to town safely.
Her faith flagged just a bit when she saw the first curl of white smoke rise from the hood of the Jeep. “Michael—I think we’re on fire,” she murmured, struggling t
o keep her voice calm when her impulse was to scream.
He, too, must have noticed the streams of white coming from under the hood. He muttered a curse, then steered cautiously around a corner to a tree-shaded side street and braked. “No, it’s not on fire,” he said. “It’s overheated. That’s steam, not smoke.”
“Oh.” She was mildly reassured. She knew an overheated engine wasn’t a disaster, although she’d never experienced the problem herself. Her parents bought all their cars new and traded them in after three years, never owning them long enough for their parts to start breaking down.
“What should we do?” she asked as he turned off the ignition.
He leaned back in his seat, sighed, then shot her a sheepish grin. “We’ll let it cool down, then add some water to the radiator and say a prayer. I should have prayed for the Jeep while I was in church this morning.”
“I’m sure you had more important things to pray about then,” she said, remembering the shadow that had briefly darkened his face when they’d walked past the church. “You didn’t enjoy church this morning, did you?”
He glanced at her, then smiled reluctantly. “I haven’t been to church in a long time. Sitting there reminded me why.”
It seemed odd that she felt no qualms about asking him such personal questions. It felt utterly natural that they should talk this way. “Is it church or God you don’t like?”
“My brother died a few years ago,” he told her. “Neither God nor the church had anything to give me when I needed them.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.” She reached across the seat to touch his wrist.
He rotated his hand and laced his fingers through hers. His expression grew more pensive as he regarded her. The leaves of an ancient elm threw mottled shadows across his face, but his eyes cut through the shadows with their force. They were dark and radiant at the same time, studying her as if they could see right through her.
Did they see how moved she’d been by their excursion to his grandparents’ old house, and by his revelation now, by his willingness to share so very much of himself with her? Did they see that she was smitten with him, falling more and more deeply under his spell? Did they see that she considered him the most fascinating, courageous, complex man she’d ever met?
Apparently what he was gazing at wasn’t her but something behind her: a house converted into an inn, judging by the sign above the front door: Pasada. “How about a drink?” he asked, motioning toward the inn. “We’ve got to wait for this baby to cool off. We may as well cool ourselves off, too.”
“All right.” It was probably just as well that he hadn’t been reading her mind and her heart. She ought to be more cautious. Just because she was falling in love with him didn’t mean she wanted him to know it.
They got out of the Jeep. He strode to the hood, gingerly released the latch and lifted it. Hot vapor ballooned out into the air. He jumped back a step, then propped the hood on its metal support rod and backed away. “That’ll teach me to drive five kilometers downhill in first gear,” he muttered.
“How about if I treat you to a drink?” Emmie offered. “You’ve got a disaster on your hands. The least I can do is pay for the drinks.”
“No, that’s okay.” He took her arm and steered her up the short front walk to the open door. A wizened old woman appeared and asked him, in brisk Spanish, what was wrong with his car.
“Why don’t you stay here,” he said to Emmie, pointing to a couple of chairs on a small patio overlooking the street, “and keep an eye on the car. I’ll go inside and buy us some drinks. What would you like?”
“A lemonade,” she said.
He nodded and followed the woman indoors. Emmie watched the white clouds of vapor rise from the engine. At least she and Michael weren’t too far from the center of town. If the Jeep couldn’t be resuscitated, they could walk back to the Cesares’ house from here.
Michael emerged from the inn carrying a tall, frosty lemonade for her and a cerveza for himself. He handed her the lemonade and took a seat next to her. A glance at the Jeep told him it hadn’t begun to cool down yet. He shrugged, turned to her and smiled, a magical smile that made her breath catch in her throat.
She took a sip of her drink. Icy and tart, it refreshed her, but she felt warm inside, hot, as if her soul was steaming like the engine. She wasn’t sure why, except that Michael’s gaze seemed to do to her what his first-gear driving did to the Jeep. She was overheated and under pressure. She sighed without meaning to.
“She has a room,” he said.
Emmie frowned. “What?”
He angled his head toward the front door, where the wizened woman had stood. “The innkeeper. She has a room.” He paused, then added, “I took it.”
The frown left Emmie’s forehead but settled deeper inside her. “You took a room here?”
“For us.” He watched her, gauging her response. “It’s ours.”
“Now?”
“For the week.” Evidently he read her bewilderment as discouragement. He turned away, observing the Jeep as the ftow of steam diminished. “We don’t need to use it I probably shouldn’t have taken it, but it wasn’t expensive, and I figured it would be here if we wanted it....”
The full impact of what he’d done sank into her, rattling her. They had a room. They had it now, and they’d have it tomorrow, and the next day, as well. No Senora Cesare chaperoning her. No muscle-bound research assistant honing in on Michael’s privacy.
They had a room. It was theirs, waiting for them, if they wanted it. All they had to do was walk inside, follow the innkeeper to the room, thank her and shut the door behind her and then face each other. All Emmie had to do was admit what she wanted, what she needed, what she felt for Michael.
“Yes,” she whispered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY LAY ACROSS the broad bed, naked, holding each other.
He hadn’t even bothered to inspect the room before he’d paid for it, but luckily it was clean and pretty, with a dark oak floor, pale-peach walls and oak beams striping the ceiling. Wrought-iron grilles covered the windows, and a clothing tree occupied one corner. Another corner held a small chest of drawers with an oval mirror above it; a ceramic pitcher and basin stood on the embroidered runner that lay across it. A bowl of pink roses decorated the night table. Fresh linens covered the bed.
Those linens were a bit rumpled now. Not that he cared. All he cared about was the soft, beautiful woman in his arms.
He hadn’t had anything with him. He hadn’t planned for this, and when he’d impulsively rented the room, he hadn’t expected Emmie to agree that they should put it to use right away. But she had. She was with him, and although he hadn’t thought to slip a condom into his wallet—hell, he wasn’t even sure where a man could buy a condom in this part of the world—they’d still managed to make some kind of love.
Shutting his eyes, he relived it in his mind: Emmie’s initial shyness as he’d unbuttoned her blouse. The flush in her cheeks as he’d bowed to kiss her breasts. Her gasp as he’d moved his hands over her skin, following the elegant slope of her back, the sweet roundness of her bottom, the silken length of her legs. He remembered thinking about her legs in church that morning. Now he could touch them, stroke them, slide his knee between her thighs, and he felt closer to God than he had hours ago in that hot, crowded chapel.
He continued to caress her in the aftermath. She was still descending from a peak, still breathing erratically, her eyes shut and her lips parted. He played his fingers gently between her legs and she tensed and moaned and covered his hand with hers. She arched against him, and he slid his finger inside her. She cried out and shuddered, lost again.
He could do this forever. Watching her come was almost as exciting as coming himself.
“Michael,” she whispered faintly, her eyes fluttering open.
He rose on one elbow and bowed to kiss her lips. That brief taste made him hungry for more, and he angled himself so he could kiss her breasts. They were
fuller than he’d realized, plump and pale, her nipples the same delicate pink as the roses in the bowl beside the bed. He flicked his tongue over one and she moaned. “Don’t,” she protested, sounding far from convincing. “I can’t...”
He lifted his head and peered down at her. “You can’t what?”
She gave him a dazed, helpless smile. “I can’t keep feeling like this. I’ll die.”
“I don’t think it’s fatal,” he assured her, sliding his finger deep once more.
“No...” She convulsed again, her breath escaping her in a ragged groan.
He waited until she’d caught her breath, then kissed her forehead. “See? You’re still alive.”
“Barely.” She smiled, but her voice grew somber when she asked, “Why does this feel so right?”
“It is right,” he told her.
She shook her head. “It shouldn’t be right, Michael. We only just met yesterday. We’re practically strangers.”
He pulled his hand away. She would resent him if he made her come again when she was so unsettled, so unsure. “We’re not strangers,” he argued. “You know everything about me.” Everything except the truth, he added silently. But she did know the most important things—who he was, where he was from, how far he had traveled from the land of his father and how tied he still was to that land. She knew about his brother; she knew about his ambivalence toward religion; she knew where he was living in town and whom he was living with.
The only thing she didn’t know was that he’d come to San Pablo to help Max Gallard bring in a bail-jumping gunrunner—and right now, that simply didn’t seem relevant.
“If we were strangers,” he pointed out, “we wouldn’t be feeling this way about each other.”
“What way?”
“This way.” He rolled on top of her, wanting to feel the hollows and swells of her body against his. His mouth covered hers, coaxed hers open, and his tongue curled against hers. He felt himself grow steel hard, pressing into the surface of her belly.
Found: One Son Page 11