Sixty Acres and a Bride

by Regina Jennings

  Now, that sounded like fun. Rosa tightened her hair ribbon before answering. “I’d love to. I just ate, but I don’t think it’ll slow me down.”

  “You want to run?”

  Why did he look at her that way? He’d just invited her to race.

  “Absolutely!” She stood and surveyed the landscape. “How far were you thinking of running?”

  Eliza spewed her drink across the yard. “Rosa! Are you serious?”

  In a heartbeat their audience grew by half a dozen interested cowboys. Oh no. What had she done now?

  “What’s this?” Weston looked from Rosa to his sister, who was having trouble sitting up straight.

  “Rosa wants to race the cowboys,” she gasped.

  “Not just the cowboys. I thought everyone was going to run.”

  Aunt Mary put her hand to her incredibly solid hip. “You thought we were going to run?”

  Rosa looked around the table. Stout Aunt Mary had probably never run a step in her life. Dour Octavia wasn’t going anywhere fast. That left only Eliza, the most likely candidate, if it weren’t for her expanding belly.

  “There isn’t a race for the ladies?” Rosa dropped to the bench. She hoped Louise didn’t hear about this.

  “Sure there is.” Bailey propelled Rico to the front. “You can race him.” Willie and Red pantomimed a race, complete with flailing arms and mincing steps.

  “Don’t let them tease you, señorita.” Rico dusted off his sleeves in a show of dignity. “If there was a race, you would win because we would all be chasing you.”

  Weston cuffed him on the head. “I apologize for their behavior, Mrs. Garner. They forget how to act around ladies.”

  “Maybe we’ve never been around a lady like her.” Bailey was trying to help, but Rosa didn’t miss the stern look his mother shot him. Anyone could identify the differences between her and the other ladies of Prairie Lea. The challenge was finding things they held in common.

  “Y’all say you’re going to race, but all I hear is running off at the mouth.” Wes gathered the ruffians around. “First one to the north pasture chute and back wins a gold dollar. Take off.”

  A clamor ensued as they jostled around the tables, through the gate, and across the pasture, leaving the remaining celebrants choking in their dust. Rosa fanned away the thick air. She’d managed to keep her white blouse clean through the dripping, saucy supper. No use getting it dingy now.

  “Let’s get this mess cleaned up.” Aunt Mary got to her feet and reached for the dishes. “They’ll want music when they get back.”

  George and Jake lifted the long plank to dismantle the makeshift table, giving Rosa little time to clear it. The hastily gathered dishes teetered precariously in her arms.

  Weston came to her rescue. Taking the mugs from the stack of plates, he fell into step with her.

  “You were really going to run?”

  The question sounded nonjudgmental, but she knew a man like him had an opinion. Well, she could only tell the truth. She nodded.

  “Did the women race at home?”

  The way he said home warmed her. She was happy here, but rarely did anyone acknowledge that she, too, had a home—a place where she was special, where she was normal and did everything correctly and properly. Well, maybe distance and time had clouded her memory. Even at home she was considered unconventional.

  “Not really, but I liked to.”

  He pulled the gate open with his boot and held it open with his leg until she cleared the passage.

  “Not much chance for a lady to run around here, I reckon.”

  “Or climb, or throw, or kick . . .” She sighed.

  He whistled. “What exactly did you do in Mexico? Rodeo?”

  She shot him a sideways glance to see if she should continue. “Not rodeo, although I had to deal with goats from time to time. I also climbed the mango trees with the best of them. Everyone wanted my help during harvest. Sometimes for fun we would hang a clay pot in a tree and hit it with a stick.”

  “Piñatas?”

  She beamed at him. “Sí, señor, piñatas, but you all work so hard. Everyone is too tired to have fun.” She saw the cowboys, now on their last leg of the race, coming around the grove. “Almost everyone.”

  The hapless young men sprinted through the yard, red-faced and dripping in sweat. She cheered and clapped with Eliza and Aunt Mary and congratulated Willie for his first-place performance.

  Weston held the gold piece between finger and thumb and dropped it into his palm. “Having y’all tuckered out is worth a dollar.”

  Willie knotted the coin in his bandanna and stuffed it into his pocket. “We ain’t tuckered out. We’re just getting started.”

  “Time for us to call it a night.” Eliza could barely get the words out before a yawn interrupted her.

  Bailey’s guitar stopped mid-melody. The last notes floated up to the owls in the eaves of the barn. “You can’t go. Most of the feed is out of the way. Give the guys another minute, and then we’ll dance.”

  Rosa lowered her flute to her lap. Accompanying Rico and Bailey was fun, but couldn’t compete with dancing. They couldn’t turn in this early.

  “You think I’m going to dance?” Eliza laughed at her cousin. “That’s not possible, but I’ll leave Rosa in my place.”

  “Rosa’s staying? All right, then.” Bailey resumed the music.

  Eliza’s nose curled up. “Good heavens, Bailey! I regret breaking your heart, but it appears your recovery is well underway.” She turned to Rosa. “And you’re laughing.”

  “Yes. You’re funny and I’m having a good time. Louise told the truth. This is more fun than a parade and fireworks could ever be.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. After all the work you do on that ranch, you deserve a holiday.” She patted Rosa’s shoulder and made her way out of the barn.

  Rosa joined the song already in progress. For the first hour of their improvised concert Rico and Bailey had performed the repertoire of tunes they’d practiced on the trail. Rico played the violin and Bailey alternated between his banjo and guitar, occasionally prompting some rowdy cowboy to dance a jig in appreciation. Rosa skillfully joined in with her flute, familiar with some of Rico’s song choices, but able to improvise harmony when she wasn’t.

  It was getting late, but no one else left, and that suited Rosa just fine. She’d brought her carpetbag to Mary’s, which meant she could dance and sing until the sun came up, or for as long as these gringos could keep up with her. She would play until she was out of breath. She would play until her fingers had to be pried off her flute. She would play until there was an opportunity to do something she loved even better.

  The song ended with an enthusiastic “yee-haw” from the men. When the hoots and whistles quieted down, Rico stood on a hay bale and hollered for attention.

  “Now, for a special treat, I invite Mrs. Garner to join me in la mariposa.”

  Her heart leapt when she heard the name. But could they do it? “Rico, no one dances la mariposa here. Besides, I don’t think we have enough dancers to pull it off.”

  “But of course we do. They don’t even have to move. We can make it simple for the hombres.” He nodded to Bailey. “You play that mariachi song I taught you in Waco. That will be perfect.”

  “I don’t know about this.” She hadn’t been to any dances in Texas and didn’t know what they expected. None of the other women had danced that evening.

  Weston came into view. He leaned against a post, watching the proceedings with interest. Surely he wouldn’t mind. These cowboys could get rough, but as long as he and Aunt Mary were present, she was chaperoned.

  Mary confirmed her judgment. “Honey, you need to dance. You’ve been sitting here playing for these cowboys for hours. You’re going to explode if you don’t get out there.”

  Rosa couldn’t suppress the broad smile. Excitement filled her as she set her flute down and laid her shawl aside.

  Rico took the stage
, the barn floor really, and announced with a hand to his heart, “This is the butterfly dance, danced by señoritas throughout Mexico to reveal the one whose heart beats with love for them.”

  Not to be outdone, Bailey called out, “We all love Mrs. Garner. How will this show her anything?”

  “If you don’t know, then we won’t tell you.” Rico flashed a conspiratorial smile at Rosa. “Now, all our cowboys need to do is to stand still. Clap with the music, offer your hand to the lady if you will, but don’t move. La mariposa, or butterfly, will inspect each flower and decide which it is that offers her the sweetest promise of a future.”

  Willie objected. “You didn’t say anything about us being flowers. Besides, after winning that gold dollar I’d hate to win the girl, too.”

  Uncle George spoke up. “No one’s going to confuse you boys with flowers. Not the way you smell.”

  “But the butterfly has ways of seeing through all the grime and reading their hearts.”

  “Oh, Rico,” Rosa laughed. “Stop it. You’re going to scare them. It’s just a dance.”

  “Just a dance?! Where’s your sense of tradition? What have these Americans done to you? Have they drained your warm Mexicana blood from your veins?” He tapped his chin with his index finger. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this. Are you sure you can do la mariposa justice?”

  How dare he challenge her! She marched to the center of the barn, hands on her hips, and turned quickly enough to make her skirts flare up. With lifted chin, she looked down her nose at the young man and clicked her heels together loudly. “I can dance.” And would prove it.

  “Bueno! Let’s see . . . Willie, you stand there, Red, directly opposite. All the hombres face the middle of the square. I’ll take the other side, and we need one more.” He looked at Bailey but shook his head. “No, you must supply our music. Is there any other bachelor that could win the hand of the señorita?”

  Rosa scanned the barn. Everyone left was married. George could step in. Mary wouldn’t mind. She was about to ask when she heard Rico call out to Weston.

  “Mr. Garner! I forgot you were here. Would you be a gentleman and stand up for the lady?”

  “It seems the lady already has plenty of men.” Weston didn’t budge.

  Rosa’s mouth grew dry. She searched his face looking for a sign that she should stop, but it was indecipherable. Finally he stepped forward. “But I reckon if the lady wants four partners, she should get four partners.” He took his place while his employees cheered their approval.

  It couldn’t be that bad. Willie and Red weren’t known for their dancing. Maybe Weston would teach these yahoos a thing or two. Besides, after their race they’d carried their own stink into the barn. Pleased with himself, he watched her prepare for the first steps and, when she wasn’t looking, leaned his nose down to his shoulder to catch the crisp scent of his soap. Yep, still smelled fresh. He might be older than his cowboys, but he was wiser.

  Bailey jumped right into the music. He plucked a few notes of the melody, and then the pulsating beat of the dance took hold. Rosa didn’t hesitate. First she marched a wide circle around the four men, holding her red skirt in her hand, arm extended, slowly fanning the audience as she passed by, then she cut between her partners in an intricate figure eight, sashaying around first one, then another, her feet sounding out a staccato rhythm as she passed.

  Weston couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Little minx. She was usually so demure, content to do heavy labor and monotonous tasks. No sign of that girl now. After talking to her that evening, he better understood her frustration. She was a Thoroughbred being made to pull a plow when she should be flying through the territory.

  She held her skirt out to both sides and swung it with supple brown arms. She traced quick S’s in the air. Colored petticoats were visible with every beat of the music. She dipped. She swung. Silver bell earrings bounced against her neck as she tossed her head.

  Rosa’s steps slowed as she fixed her gaze on Red. The playful smile settled into a sultry expression as she stalked toward him. Red’s eyebrows went up, and a silly grin spread across his mouth. He gaped as she spun around him, swinging her skirt high enough to slap him in the chest. She made one pass, then another while he stared openmouthed in a total lack of sophistication.

  Rico wanted in on the game. He threw back his head and yelped like a coyote. “Stupid hombre,” he taunted. “He doesn’t know how to treat you, mariposa bonita. Come dance for me!” He assumed a matador pose, chest thrust out, shoulders back, and followed her path shamelessly with eyes as dark as her own.

  Rosa didn’t go straight to him, but coyly worked her way through the group. One minute she stared at him brazenly, the next she peeked at him over her shoulder.

  “Here she comes, Rico,” George called out. “I think you’re going to have your hands full.” The barn erupted in a chorus of laughter.

  Even Aunt Mary got in on the fun, tapping her foot and slapping her leg. “What a show she’s putting on. Who knew she had it in her?”

  Weston had to agree. And Rico hadn’t been fooling. No dancing was required of the men. All Weston had to do was watch. Around Rico she floated, her skirts undulating like a butterfly—no, more like a hummingbird.

  Bailey increased the tempo, causing her wings to dart toward the young man and then sweep away. Rico acted the part of a proud don. He raised his hands shoulder height to clap, each sound corresponding to a step she took: a few slow and deliberate, then a spin and dip in rapid succession. The matador didn’t move an inch, and for all her rotations their eyes never left each other.

  Weston’s gut wrenched. Why was she looking at the pup like that? And he was acting ridiculous. Puffing his chest out like a toad. Who did he think he was? But as much as he wanted to deny it, they made a striking couple. Passion to passion, they matched each other. If this miserable dance was going to reveal who loved her, they could end it now. He couldn’t imagine a more complementary dance partner for her. But it wasn’t over.

  The guitar’s pulsating melody continued to envelop the humid barn floor. Rosa rounded Rico for the final pass of the set and for the first time during the dance faced Weston.

  He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, but before he could understand its meaning, she pulled on the mask and resumed her character. She shamelessly met his gaze, allowing her eyes to go soft and then saucy. She pranced around him once, stepping off her territory before sweeping in toward her prey.

  Hands above her head, she snapped out the rhythm with gyrating wrists and swaying elbows. His mouth went dry as she dallied at his side, her left foot pressed tightly against the inside of his right foot, his leg completely lost in her swaying skirts. He clenched his fists, knowing he looked like a fool.

  “Oh lands,” he overheard Mary say. “He’s not happy. Not one bit.”

  No, he wasn’t happy, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Rosa. Her cheeks were flushed, her forehead damp, and heaven help him, he couldn’t help but notice how hard she was breathing as she flitted so miraculously close without touching him. He tried not to look at her body, but her eyes were even more dangerous, dark and inviting, knowing and teasing. She was a stranger. Alluring? Absolutely! But not the woman he’d come to respect. But alluring . . . Absolutely! Alluring . . .

  “That’s enough!” he blurted. Weston strode to the hay bale and yanked the guitar out of Bailey’s hands.

  The barn went completely silent. The men stood awkwardly in their positions. Rosa’s skirts dropped to her side, her mouth fell open. Someone cleared their throat. Straw rustled as the cowboys leaned forward on the hay bales. Weston remained in the center of the observers, holding the guitar at arm’s length like a rattler.

  He could hear Mary trying to find words, but nothing coherent came out of her mouth. The awful moment stretched until he felt his nerves would snap. Only Rico seemed amused by the situation. Staying out of Weston’s reach, he stepped over to Rosa and took her trembling hand.

  “Now, señorita, t
he dance is over!”

  Rosa gasped, snatched her hand from him, and ran out the door. Weston dropped the guitar in Bailey’s lap and followed her.

  “Rosa!”

  Her white blouse glowed in the darkness, but she wasn’t waiting on him. He ran to catch her before she disappeared into the sanctuary of the house.

  “Rosa!” He grabbed her by the arm and swung her around.

  “How dare you embarrass me like that!” she spat.

  “I’d say you were embarrassing yourself without my help.”

  Her hand flew up, but he caught her wrist. “Watch it, missy. If this is going to get physical, there’s a woodshed back there we can visit. Throwing you over my knee and giving you a good spanking sounds like a fine idea ’bout now.”

  “Is that how a gentleman acts?”

  “A gentleman? I’m the only one with enough sense to call that dance while you still had some shred of a reputation left. What are you supposed to do? See how far you can go with each man? Is that the game? The one who lets you debase yourself the most will be your true love?”

  She shot daggers at him. “It’s a dance. There’s nothing debasing about it. And no, you’re so ignorant you don’t even know that you . . . that the dance . . .” she floundered.

  “What about the dance?” She was hiding something from him. “Did you find him?” He took her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his gaze. “Who is your future lover?”

  Was that disbelief on her face? She pushed his hand away. “The lover is the one who stops the dance—the one who won’t allow anyone else to be with his butterfly. That’s the sign of true love.”

  Weston staggered to the edge of the porch. He’d played the part to a tee. Sure, he’d watched her too closely, followed her every movement possessively. And he could even admit he was jealous as she and Rico did their duet, but when she came to him, he couldn’t laugh it off like Red. He couldn’t play along like Rico. She held him spellbound, and like Joseph of the Bible, he had to flee temptation. He let out a long shaky breath. So now everyone in the barn knew the exact limits of his self-control.