A Wild Red Rose

by Lynn Shurr

  “Manuela said she ate her dinner and drank the tea. That’s good after all the upsets she’s had. I’m worried that she asked for a phone, though,” Clint was saying.

  “Clinton O. Beck, what have you done to that poor young woman?” Madalena said with a shake of her head.

  “Mama, if you had seen Renee three months ago, you’d be telling me I was the one in danger.”

  “Ah, so she is like Brandy and Ginger and Bess. You find Ginger in an alley, bring her home, and she gives birth in my house the next night. You tame Brandy, and when you leave for school, she won’t let another man touch her. Bess eats more than she was ever worth and I must bottle feed her baby. Always, I am the one stuck with them.”

  “You’re going to bring up that old cow, too. Renee is not like Brandy and Ginger or Bess. I was just a kid then, but all of them needed a second chance. You complain, but I know where I got my soft side.”

  “Yes, always bringing home the needy. Your father won’t be pleased with you.”

  “He never is.”

  Renee let the curtain drop back. While she took a small bit of consoling pleasure that seventy-year-old Mrs. Beck regarded her as young, being Clint Beck’s pity case felt worse than being his practical joke. Renee went back to the bed and burrowed into the covers. She missed Clint’s hot, hard body next to hers, but by damn if she would ever tell him so.

  ****

  “I’m getting chilled, Clinton. Let’s go back inside and continue this discussion. I believe you haven’t the slightest idea what you have taken on this time.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” he argued as they retired to the large living room. Clint opened the damper in the fireplace and started a small blaze. He knew his mother enjoyed watching the flames in the cool of a desert evening. He poured more wine, hoping to mellow her out.

  “What you have taken on is a family. Renee is obviously pregnant and probably hoping you will marry her.”

  Clint choked on his wine. “Why do women keep saying that? She denied it just this morning when we were in line at Walmart.”

  “All the signs are there, son. You say she hasn’t been feeling well. And her breasts are so swollen.”

  “They’re always big like that. She has implants, Mama. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “She is glowing—and showing. How long have you been together, Clinton?”

  “About three months. I know Renee has put on a little weight since we met, but we spend most of our time driving around in the Nelle.” Frantically, he tried to explain away that popping of the jeans earlier in the evening.

  “In all those three months, has she asked you to stop at a drugstore for feminine hygiene products? Has she asked you to buy her tampons?”

  “Mom, jeez—God forbid that last one! We stop at drugstores all the time. She buys cosmetics and fashion magazines. Maybe Renee has a prescription for those birth control pills where a woman doesn’t get a period anymore.”

  Clint Beck knew better. Didn’t he have her purse with the diaphragm case hidden in the Nelle. Hadn’t he been using condoms religiously?

  “I am sorry, son. She appears to be more than three months along to me. This cannot be your child. If it was, I would expect you to do the right thing by her immediately. I am old-fashioned that way, as you know. As it is, the decision is yours. Do you care enough about this woman to marry her? Can you raise another man’s child and not feel deceived or resentful? Exactly how brave are you, Clinton O. Beck?”

  Lena folded her arms and waited for an answer, but her son stalked off to his room without giving her a reply. Whose child did Renee carry if truly pregnant? One of the wannabe bull riders who frequented Bodey’s camp, or Bodey himself cheating while Eve recovered from childbirth? The man did have a reputation on the rodeo circuit no matter how much he claimed to have reformed. Could Clint raise a child born with black curls and Irish blue eyes knowing who the real daddy must be? Did he have that kind of heart, that kind of courage? Did he love Renee enough to accept both her and the child? Clint asked himself these questions all night long.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Renee woke to the sound of mockingbirds quarreling over territory in the courtyard. The hacienda was beautifully antique and that applied to its plumbing also. She’d made the trip down the hall to the bathroom twice in the night and passed other rooms where people tossed and turned as much as she did.

  No matter how gracious Madalena Beck could be, she probably spent the evening worrying that her only son would marry this pathetic loser. As for Clint, she’d never known him to miss a night’s sleep to anything except sex, but maybe he felt a tad guilty about his deception.

  Renee rooted through the oversized Walmart bag a servant delivered to her room. She shook out the seventies-style top with its wild swirls of colors and tied it behind her neck and loosely at the waist. Made of polyester and spandex, the blouse had no wrinkles. Unfortunately, it clung to that definite bulge she’d developed sitting on her tush all day in the Nelle. When had it grown from a little extra pooch of flesh into a noticeable belly?

  Still, she wished she owned skin-tight lime green cropped pants to go with it, and ice-pick heels and dangling earrings, so Lena Beck could see the kind of person Renee Hayes was—not a woman who had lost everything and needed care and a home—but a bad, bad girl who could take care of herself.

  Sighing, she pulled up the cotton underwear and a pair of too snug blue jeans left partly unzipped and pushed her feet into her scuffed boots. Leaving the silver cuff bracelet on the dresser with the greatest reluctance, Renee set out to find her hostess and Clinton O. Beck.

  She heard conversation at the far end of the hall and by taking another right angle passage she ended up in a long, narrow kitchen gleaming with sub-zero refrigerators big enough for caterers to use, stretches of granite countertops, and a professional range with an option for grilling indoors.

  The hacienda staff gathered around a long table—maids, yardmen, a few cowboys—each having a second cup of coffee as they polished off a breakfast of warm tortillas, scrambled eggs, and crumbled chorizo sausage. Pots of Beck’s Texas-Style Salsa sat within easy reach. Renee recognized the brand. Clint often poured it right from the jar onto his eggs.

  “Excuse me. Where could I find Mrs. Beck and Clint?”

  The maid who had attended her the night before jumped up from the table. “Come, come. I show you. In the breakfast room, senora.”

  Renee walked the length of the kitchen and through another door opening into a cozy room with a view of the rolling hills, the creek, and on the other side of the water, a small herd of well-bred horses swishing their tails under an oak.

  A sideboard held a chafing dish of eggs, a covered dish to keeping the tortillas warm, the expected pot of salsa, and an iron skillet of sausage set on a trivet. Wedges of cantaloupe and honeydew melon fanned out on a plate in a sunburst pattern with a centerpiece of fresh strawberries. Half a carafe of coffee remained along with hot water for tea, but earlier risers had eaten and left.

  Renee waited for her stomach to rebel. When it didn’t, she filled a tortilla with eggs and sausage and salsa, made a cup of tea, and heaped her plate with strawberries. Airlines barely fed their customers anymore, and she figured her father, tired of having to bail her out again no matter how much he denied it, had gotten her a ticket in coach. Might as well fuel up for the flight. Gobbling down her breakfast resulted in a belch she was glad Mrs. Beck had not observed.

  Finished stuffing herself and hoping the food would stay with her, she wandered into the next room, a dining hall fit for royalty with its twelve high-backed, carved chairs and sweeping length of table ornamented with silver candelabra every few feet. Narrow windows set deep into the adobe walls allowed thin streams of sunlight to enter the room while the glass-paned doors to the left showed off the courtyard still in morning shade. Clint and his mother were neither here nor there.

  Renee passed into the large living area where she had been greeted the
night before and smelled the scent of ashes from a fire gone cold—still no denizens of Hacienda Hidalgo. She started down the long hallway toward the front door and stopped when she saw Madalena Beck, obviously in prayer before one of the religious statues. A vanilla-scented votive candle burned in the cut glass container and clusters of fresh red roses from the courtyard filled a nearby vase. Dressed in a bright yellow blouse and wearing white cotton slacks and sandals, Mrs. Beck seemed to glow in the dim hallway. The light from the votive candle glinted off her gold jewelry as she crossed herself. Renee moved in to say her good-byes.

  “Ah, there you are looking much better than last evening and feeling better as well, I hope. Did you have breakfast?” Mrs. Beck asked most cordially.

  “Yes, I do feel better, and I have eaten.” Renee suppressed another burp. “Thank you for the hospitality, but if you could ask someone to drive me to the airport, I’ll be catching a flight to Lafayette. I own a home in Rainbow, Louisiana, and it’s time I went back there.”

  Lena Beck didn’t immediately call for a driver as Renee thought she would.

  “I’ve heard of Rainbow. There is a shrine to Santa Maria Magdalena at Mt. Carmel Academy that I have heard often produces miracles. She is my patron saint, you know.”

  Mrs. Beck nodded at the statue. “I’ve often felt she has guided my life. Once, she came to me in a dream and told me that I would have a son at last at the age of forty. I laughed about it with my husband the next day and started with morning sickness the next week. Last night, she chided me for making a poor judgment, saying I would lose something of great value if I didn’t repent of it. Renee, you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish, no matter what Clinton has to say this morning.”

  “Again, thank you, but I must be going. Tell Clint I’m sorry I missed him.”

  “Oh, he is waiting for you in the outer courtyard. I think he was afraid you might hot-wire the Nelle and leave without him.” Lena Beck gave a tinkling laugh.

  “How does he know I can hot-wire a car? One of my old boyfriends taught me that in high school.”

  “Perhaps, you talk in your sleep. I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I am sure you are very resourceful.”

  Renee knew her face had gone red. She’d spent years learning to suppress the curse of the redheaded. But, she stood her ground. “I’m no Brandy or Ginger. I am not some pregnant, homeless tramp. I can take care of myself.”

  “Oh dear, you overheard. Santa Maria warned me. No, not a tramp. I think you are like these red roses, tough and hardy. You find them draped on crumbling adobe walls at abandoned home sites. Pioneer women brought them here to brighten their hard lives. They are beautiful and fragrant, but if you keep them well-watered, they bloom and bloom and bloom. Their hips make a wonderful tea that is curative and delightful. I dug the plants myself and brought them here to the hacienda for our courtyard. I admire their ability to survive. They are part of my home now, one that I love. Please, let Clinton talk to you. Afterward, if you still want the ride to the airport, I will arrange it.”

  Embarrassed by the flowery compliment just paid her, Renee only nodded and set her feet on the path for a confrontation with Clinton O. Beck. He twiddled his thumbs on a bench near the fountain, all signs of the poor cowboy gone. He wore a pressed pale blue dress shirt open at the throat, ironed khakis looped by an alligator belt, and very expensive running shoes new from the box. Freshly shaven, his short, dark blond hair brushed back damp from the shower, he consulted a heavy Rolex wristwatch for the time, every inch of him a Bean King. He stood as soon as he heard her close the door.

  “Renee, I know you are angry with me about lying to you.”

  “No, I’m not.” She had the satisfaction of seeing his jaw drop. “I know my reputation, Clint. I suppose Bodey told you I was on the prowl for my third rich husband. I understand why you hid your identity—because Bodey is right. I would have pursued you for your money.”

  “Would have? Here I am, still rich, eligible, and if I do say so myself—handsome.” Clint spread out his arms to display his charms.

  “I know you just wanted the fun and games part of Renee Hayes. That’s all most men want. Then, when you found out about Uncle Dewey, you felt sorry for me. But, Clint, I’m no Brandy or Ginger or Bess to be dragged along home for your mother to take care of while you go back to your career.”

  “Brandy and Ginger and—. They have nothing to do with this.” The old dog sitting near Clint pricked up her ears and wagged her tail. Clint rubbed the animal’s neck.

  “This is Ginger. I found her when I was seventeen and brought her home. She gave birth to twelve mixed-breed puppies the next night. My mother found homes for all of them, but I had to go back to boarding school before they were weaned. As for Brandy, she’s buried out there in the pasture across the way.”

  Renee startled and stared at him as if he might be a serial killer. Clint rushed to explain. “Brandy was a misused mare. Her first owner spoiled her; her second abused her. She was going to end up as dog meat for being incorrigible. The one summer I got to stay home, I worked with her until she turned into a very sweet mount.”

  “I overheard your mother say she wouldn’t accept any other man.”

  “True, but Brandy did accept our top-notch quarter horse stud. She produced twelve fine foals before she passed away. My sisters’ kids still have some of them.”

  “You called Bess an old cow. Is that how you think of me?”

  “No,” Clint said carefully. “Because Bess really was a cow. She got mauled protecting her newborn calf from coyotes. My father said to put her and the calf down. I begged him to trailer her in and get a vet. She mended, but my mother did get stuck bottle feeding the calf because Dad dragged me off on another business trip.”

  “Forgive me if I still do see some parallels here.” Renee started to walk past him. She could wait at the end of the road for her ride.

  “No, no, listen. I saw a beautiful woman going to waste, that’s all. When I had your purse stolen, I was trying to show you didn’t need all those props to be lovely, that fun could be had without a lot of money.”

  “Says the super rich Bean King. I cannot believe you stole my bag. Everything I am was in that bag! Yes, now I’m angry.”

  “Everything you were was in that bag. You don’t need the heavy make-up, the green contacts, and the super-sized spermatocide anymore!”

  “You—you wanted to keep me plain, naked, barefoot, and—and…”

  Here it came, the confession. Clint braced himself, prepared the words he had rehearsed last night, and hoped they would come to his lips without hesitation.

  “Slightly overweight.”

  “Tiger, I love every inch of you.” That wasn’t what he meant to say, not what he thought she would say either.

  “Well, thanks for letting me know you think I’m fat.” Renee put her hands on her hips, which definitely had gotten bigger.

  “Honey, you didn’t hear me right. I said I love you. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “Yes. I want my purse. Now!”

  “Okay. That’s a start. Let’s get the purse issue out of the way. It’s in the Nelle.”

  Clint took Renee’s elbow and steered her toward the gate where the Nelle sat waiting. She shook off his hand.

  “I’m perfectly capable of getting there on my own.”

  “Of course you are. Watch those cracks in the tiles.”

  Renee rolled her eyes, then found herself coming to a stop in front of the gate which Clint had to open. He squeezed the door opener on his key ring and let her stalk over to the Nelle by herself.

  “Where is it? I’ve been riding around in this rattletrap for weeks and know my bag isn’t under the seats.”

  Clint felt under the front bumper, found the lever and pulled it. The false back of the cab popped open into the bed of the truck. Miscellaneous boxes of bullfighting gear, mostly running shoes and shirts with logos, tumbled out. In one corner Renee’s huge leather bag sl
ouched on top of a Toughbook laptop. Clint clambered over the tailgate and handed the purse to Renee. He jumped down beside her.

  “Everything is in there. I haven’t touched the bag since I locked it away.”

  Renee stared at the compartment. “So that’s how Snuffy made the miniature donkey appear.”

  “Don’t get upset. Snuffy cleaned out all the donkey dirt before he put the stuff back.”

  “Now that I have my bag, I’m over being upset. Are you taking me to the airport, or is one of the servants going to drive?”

  “I was planning on taking you to Ellensburg with me—in the corporate jet since your driver’s license is expired and the passport you picked up at home burned up with the trailer. You won’t be able to get on a regular flight without an I.D., but we leave from a private airstrip,” Clint said with some satisfaction.

  “Is this another trick?” Renee snarled.

  “Was I the one who burnt down The Tin Can? Did I let my driver’s license expire because my picture was so pretty?”

  She noticed a twinkle like sun on the sea appear in those deep blue eyes of his. He would try a new tactic. They had been together daily for so long she could read him the way he read the movements of wild bulls.

  “Ever join the Mile High Club?” he asked, grinning.

  “Yes.” Renee folded her arms. Let him deal with that.

  “Fine. Ever do it in a comfortable bed while soaring over the Rockies?”

  “No, but the real challenge is using the small restrooms.”

  “We have a bathroom on board, too.”

  “You weren’t planning to abandon me here?”

  “No, I wasn’t. I wanted Mama to meet you, that’s all. We still have lots to say to each other. Will you come with me to Washington? Please?” Clint leaned up against the cab of the Nelle with his arms folded as if he could wait all day for her answer.