San Antonio Rose

by Fran Baker

  “Why don’t you walk back to the house with Rusty and Webb?” Her voice sounded remarkably calm considering she felt as if she was on the verge of a breakdown. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Say the word, and I’ll stay,” Rusty assured her.

  Time had drawn craggy lines in his face and faded the red hair, which accounted for his nickname, to the color of fine silver. There was a permanent squint to his eyes from long years of riding into the sun and the wind. Bucking broncos and stampeding cattle had broken almost every bone in his body.

  But his age and infirmities aside, Rusty could still outrope, outride, and outfight many a younger man. He was the last cowboy, gallant to the core where ladies were concerned. And just as he would have done anything at one time to protect her mother, so Jeannie knew he would have laid down his life for her and for Tony right now.

  She smiled at his offer to stay but shook her head in refusal. “I’d rather you keep an eye on things at the house.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “I was planning to go back to my place and change clothes.”

  As foreman, Rusty lived in a small bungalow instead of the fourplex the other unmarried cowhands called home. It was about a mile from the main house, and it wasn’t fancy by any stretch of the imagination. But it was one of the privileges of rank. And it guaranteed him some privacy after a day spent moving cattle and bossing men.

  He gave the brim of his Stetson a tug and her a shrug. “I figured I’d ride out and finish getting a calf count so you can order the supplies we’ll need for branding next week.”

  That gave Jeannie an idea. “Maybe Tony could go with you.”

  “All right!” came Tony’s jubilant cry.

  “I thought you were hungry,” Rusty said with a teasing smile.

  “I’ll eat fast,” Tony promised.

  “Not too fast,” Jeannie insisted.

  “Awww, Mom.”

  “Have Martha feed him at the kitchen table,” Jeannie instructed the ranch manager. The words just in case remained unspoken, but they shimmered in the air between them.

  Rusty nodded as if to say he’d gotten the rest of her message, then reached over to ruffle Tony’s thick hair with a gnarled hand. “C’mon, cowpoke, let’s go see what that crotchety old cook has rustled up.”

  “I hope she made tacos,” Tony said as he fell into step beside the foreman. At nine going on ten he was tall for his age, his dark head already coming to Rusty’s shoulder. “They’re my favorite.”

  Webb’s gaze swung to Rafe, then back to Jeannie’s pale, drawn face. She’d told him the whole shameful story of course. How could she not? Now she could practically see him making the connection in his mind.

  “I’ll wait here with you,” he said staunchly.

  “Please, Webb …” She laid her hand on his arm, pleading for his understanding. “I have to do this alone.” When still he hesitated, she hastened to add, “Maybe I can keep him away from the house.”

  The logic of her argument must have finally convinced him. He looked at Rafe one last time, then dropped a dry peck on her smooth, porcelain cheek before rounding on his heel and hurrying to catch up with Rusty and Tony.

  Jeannie waited until she was sure the three of them were out of earshot before she turned, head spinning and heart slamming against the walls of her chest, to face the father of her son.

  Two

  Rafe started toward her, skirting the gaping hole in the ground with long, fluid strides.

  Jeannie stood perfectly still, but the slight quiver to her lower lip betrayed her anxiety over the confrontation that had been such a long time coming.

  Through the years she had fantasized about seeing him again. She had pictured herself bumping into him by accident on the crowded streets of San Antonio or in the close confines of a dinner party. They would make polite conversation, never referring to the past, and she would take her secret with her when she took her leave.

  But his reputation preceded him now. He was a highly paid, hard-nosed litigator who let nothing stand between himself and the truth. Criminals and CEOs alike cracked under the force of his questioning. And it was this reality that had her quietly but completely panicked.

  Rafe didn’t stop until he was so close she had to raise her chin to meet his gaze. As she looked up at him, Jeannie was swept away by memories of how freely they’d laughed, how fiercely they’d fought, and how fervently they’d loved.

  She wanted to close the small gap between them and grab that brass ring of careless joy she had once known. She wanted to step into his arms and recapture some of those wonderful feelings she had experienced solely with him. She wanted to bury her face in the hollow of his broad shoulder and relieve herself of this heavy burden of silence she’d carried for so long.

  But something perilous flickered in his eyes, as if he, too, felt the pull of the past, and it brought her to her senses.

  This man, who had once held her naked under a midsummer moon and told her he loved her, had also left her without compunction and with child. Now he possessed the power to bring her world crashing down around her ears, and she would do well to watch what she said to him.

  “Hello, Jeannie.” His voice was deeper than she remembered, with a serrated edge of gruffness that probably served him well when examining a hostile witness.

  For a split second she was tempted to turn and run for the safety of the house. She was terrified of talking to him, afraid she might inadvertently reveal something he could use against her. But telling herself that if she could just hold body and soul together for the next few minutes she’d have it made, she faced him with cool composure. “Hello, Rafe.”

  “It’s been a while,” he said.

  She nodded mechanically. “It’s good to see you looking so well.”

  “Thank you.” He inclined his head at the compliment, but his mouth twisted into a mocking line that warned her he wasn’t going to make this easy for her. “Or perhaps I should say, ‘Thanks to you.’ ”

  Jeannie ignored his thinly veiled gibe. In a way she’d expected it, or something like it. But she couldn’t ignore the fact that Rafe was every inch the man she’d foreseen in her first and only lover.

  The midnight blue of his eyes hadn’t dimmed but, if anything, had become more vivid. So vivid in fact that looking into them was like receiving a jolt of electricity. Instead of serving as an insulating factor, those slashing jet brows and thick, sooty lashes intensified the force of the shock.

  His features had the same bold chiseling and the same bronze coloring of her dreams, though maturity had added an emphasis on virility rather than mere handsomeness. The grooves bracketing his sensuous mouth bespoke his determination to get ahead … and to stay there.

  The way he was dressed was a stark contrast to the past. He’d discarded the faded jeans, chambray shirts, and mud-colored boots of a college student-cum-cowhand in favor of the pinstriped suits, power ties, and polished black Cuevas of the prosperous attorney she’d always believed he would become.

  It struck Jeannie as supremely ironic that, in some ways, Rafe and she had exchanged places. He’d gone on to law school and a lucrative practice, while she’d put her own college education on hold until Tony was ready to start kindergarten. And even though she had her teaching degree now, she’d really done nothing with it.

  Jeannie wasn’t sorry she’d made the sacrifice, however. Quite the opposite in fact. Her own mother had been ill for so many years before she died that she’d played only a shadowy role in her daughter’s upbringing. So she was truly grateful for the opportunity to have given her son the time and energy that she herself had been denied.

  “It was a nice turnout,” Rafe said now, taking another stab at cordiality.

  “Yes, it was,” Jeannie agreed, thinking that if she could just skate over the thin ice of polite conversation with him, she’d be home free.

  “And a beautiful day for it too.”

  “Very.”

  A
shadow fell over his angular face as he studied her. “I’d say I’m sorry—”

  “But it would be a lie,” she finished for him in a voice that was so soft it was barely audible.

  A breeze redolent of regrets and roses swirled between them.

  “How are your parents?” Though she’d never understood the reason for Maria and Antonio Martinez’s middle-of-the-night departure, Jeannie had fond memories of the Circle C’s former housekeeper and handyman.

  “They’re retired,” Rafe answered tersely.

  “And Olivia and Enrique?” She’d been exceptionally close to his younger sister, especially fond of his little brother, and extremely lonely after their sudden disappearance.

  “Olivia is married and has two children.”

  “Boys or girls?” Her conscience took pains to remind her that Tony didn’t even know he had cousins, much less know his cousins personally.

  “One of each.” He smiled like the proud uncle he was, and she thought—not for the first time, and not without a measure of sadness—what a wonderful father he would have made. “And Enrique will graduate from the university next month.”

  That left only Rafe, and Jeannie realized that it wouldn’t do for him to know that she’d kept close tabs on him since he’d burst onto the San Antonio political scene a little over five years ago.

  She read the newspapers, she watched television. She knew that he’d emerged as a strong, eloquent voice for equal justice and equal opportunity for his people. She also knew that given the hornswaggling nature of Texas politics, he would lose all credibility as a potential candidate for the state senate if it ever got out that the Hispanic hope of the nineties had fathered a child out of wedlock.

  Rafe turned his gaze to Tony’s receding back. “Is that your son?”

  Jeannie fought to control the panic suddenly clawing at her insides. “Yes.”

  “Good-looking boy.”

  “Thank you.”

  He continued to monitor the trio’s progress as they climbed the porch steps. “Your husband must be proud of him.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief when they disappeared inside the front door. “Webb isn’t my husband.”

  “Oh?” His incisive eyes came back to her, and his black brow rose a fraction.

  “But he wants to be.” She knew she was treading on dangerous ground, yet she couldn’t stop herself. Angry embers of his betrayal still burned in her heart, and she wanted to hurt him somehow.

  Rafe flinched, confirming she’d hit her target, then recovered in the blink of an eye. “You’re divorced?”

  Jeannie extended her hand, hoping he’d take the hint. “Thank you for com—”

  “Tell me about your husband,” he encouraged, ignoring both her outstretched hand and obvious dismissal.

  “My husband?” She should have remembered he was a lawyer; he picked up on other people’s attempts to evade an issue.

  “The man you eloped with,” he reminded her silkily.

  “Eloped?” She shook her head in confusion. “Who told you I eloped?”

  His voice deepened to a cryptic huskiness. “I have my sources.”

  “Good for you,” she returned in kind, fighting the urge to tell him that his “sources” were either terrible liars or totally unreliable. But if she did that, she would have to tell him the rest of the story. And she definitely didn’t want to open that Pandora’s box.

  “How did you meet your husband?”

  “Check with your sources.”

  Rafe frowned at her flippant response. “Why didn’t you keep his name?”

  Jeannie forced herself to smile sweetly. “Am I on trial here?”

  “I’m asking the questions.”

  “I don’t have to answer them.”

  His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did he leave you, or did—”

  Her eyes smoked with anger. “That’s none of your damn business!”

  “You’re right,” he conceded reluctantly.

  “I’m so glad you agree,” she shot back.

  “The past is dead.”

  But the past wasn’t dead. It lived and breathed, laughed and cried, ran and jumped and rode with all the rough-and-tumble energy of a boy who would soon be ten. And the one who knew this lied through her teeth.

  “Yes, the past is dead.”

  “As to the future—” he began.

  Jeannie didn’t give him a chance to finish. She spun on her heels and started to stalk away. Unfortunately she didn’t get very far. Rafe came after her, grabbing her by the elbow and turning her back. She felt the sinewy pressure of his fingers through the silk of her sleeve and pulled free of his grasp. But her skin tingled with a delicious afterburn, as if it had total recall of his touch.

  “Have you set a date?” he demanded.

  “A date?” she echoed blankly.

  The curve of his lips—she couldn’t call it a real smile—caused shivers to chase along her spine. “For your wedding.”

  “Not yet.” The instant the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to bite her tongue. Instead she tipped her chin and, in a voice as brittle as an icicle, said, “But I’ll be sure to send you an invitation.”

  “You do that,” he countered, his voice as challenging as the gaze he fastened on her upturned face.

  As an attorney Rafe had trained himself to step outside his own emotions and to think logically, to rein in his temper and let reason prevail. But logic proved a poor match for stormy gray eyes and satiny white skin. And reasoning simply failed him as he studied the full, velvety mouth that had given him so much pleasure and caused him so much pain.

  Jeannie stood still for his disconcerting perusal as long as she could, then she backed up a step and said stiffly, “Well, I’d better go see to my guests.”

  “Take off your hat,” he ordered with ominous softness.

  She wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  Rafe stepped forward, forcing her to tilt her head back. Jeannie froze. His face was so close, it nearly touched hers beneath the drooping brim. The woody scent of vetiver emanated from his warm skin. Her heart—the same heart that had beat so fervently for him eleven years ago—began racing again as his blue eyes raked her over the coals of yesterday’s desire.

  She felt the rush of adrenaline through her veins, heightening her senses. After all this time he still affected her—the masculine smell of him, the Dionysian force of him. She twisted her head away, then back, her lips parting with a protest that died in her throat.

  “I want to see if your hair still catches sunlight.” Eleven years of longing vied with eleven years of loathing in his husky voice. But it was himself he hated at that moment, not her. And what he really wanted tingled in the space between their lips, sending a fresh flurry of tremors down her spine.

  “Some things are better left to memory,” she said on a falling note.

  “Not this,” he drawled as his hand found the small of her back and pulled her flush against him until she felt every rigid contour of his body.

  “Especially this!” she cried, determined to resist him even as the heat and the hardness of him revived passions that had too long lain dormant.

  She tried to wrench free, but he held her fast. Then she wedged both of her elbows between them and bored the heels of her hands into his muscled chest, but he was not to be deflected.

  Finally realizing that she was no match for his strength, she changed tactics. She looked around meaningfully, then lifted appealing eyes to his unrelenting ones. “Especially here.”

  “Where better?” he growled as his mouth ground down on hers in a kiss that was as much an affirmation of life as it was an act of reclamation.

  The virile length of him burned into the vulnerable softness of her as his tongue flicked persuasively over her lips, delving into the corners, tracing the tight seam she made of them, outlining their shape with silken circles until they parted on a gasp of pleasure and he finally tasted her response.<
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  Jeannie’s resistance melted into a rippling pool of pure longing as she wrapped her arms around Rafe’s neck and swam toward the sleek, wet spear of his tongue. Her head tilted back sharply, her hat fell off, and her loosely pinned hair cascaded to her shoulders.

  Spring sang deep inside him when he caught the fine gold strands with his free hand and felt the sun’s heat captured there. Her heart tilted as she touched her tongue to his in a circling dance of rediscovery. Their bodies, having found the familiar fit of breast to chest and feminine softness to masculine hardness, swayed to a lovers’ refrain from another lifetime.

  “Memory didn’t severe me well enough,” Rafe murmured as he raised his head and tucked a stray tendril that had escaped his grasp behind her ear.

  But memory served Jeannie too well. She had a son to protect, and Tony’s interests took precedence over her own frail desires. Then there was Webb Bishop to consider. He was the last of a dying breed, a man she could rely on when the going got rough, and she knew he was waiting at home for her to say the word.

  Trembling with anger at her own traitorous arousal, she slapped that stirring hand away and stepped out of those strong arms. She picked up her hat and dusted it off, then hugged it to herself. Her somber gray eyes reflected the pain of what she had to say.

  “Go away, Rafe.”

  “We’ve got unfinished business, Jeannie.”

  “No,” she denied with a vehement shake of her head. “It was finished between us eleven years ago.”

  “Judging by the way you kissed me back,” he said softly, “we’ve only just begun.”

  “Don’t confuse me with that starry-eyed girl you left behind,” she warned him tightly.

  His blue eyes moved up and down her slender body in a way that made her wonder if she glowed with their electric force. “You’ve matured into a beautiful woman.”

  “I’ve changed, all right.” The excitement sputtered as she reminded herself that time heals, but scars stay. “And so have my priorities.”

  “Some things never change,” he said, rewording her earlier argument and using it to his own advantage.

  The early April breeze, heady with the scent of yellow roses and the aura of youthful passions, ruffled his sable-thick hair. Sunlight scintillated off the small silver earring that studded his left lobe. A mockingbird, perched on a nearby headstone of joined hearts, called to its mate.