by Freda, Paula
“Hold on tight, woman,” Seth called over his shoulder, as he pulled the reins to the side and kneed his horse to turn and break into a gallop. With her arms wrapped tightly about his waist she buried her face in the nape of his neck.
Feeling Leatrice’s tears of joy dampen the short curly hairs on his neck, Seth experienced a new and wonderful exhilaration. He whooped excitedly. “Come on, boy,” he urged his horse to go faster. He wanted to be home with Leatrice. To kneel before the hearth and light a fire to warm the parlor, and then he wanted Leatrice in his arms. And more than this, he wanted Leatrice for his wife. No use denying it any longer. He needed her, desired her, with his mind, with his heart and with his body and soul. He could not imagine life without her.
Three days later they had exchanged their vows before a parson and in the company of the Aubreys and Beth and Tom Meredith. When they were alone and ecstasy flowed from one to the other, when their souls and minds and bodies were one, when their breath mixed as his mouth sought the sweetness of hers, Seth told her how her brief letter of goodbye had jolted him to his senses. How her selfless, humble words of love were the final twist of the key that unlocked the door to his heart. He told her how that afternoon when he had returned and found her gone, and suddenly fully realized that she would no longer be there to greet him in the evening with that proud tilt to her chin and that haughty dominance in her blue eyes, that pride and dominance that she struggled so arduously to temper before his presence, he had felt destitute, lost, and utterly miserable. Not to wake to her voice when the first rays of dawn lit the sky, the thought of it had made him run to the stable and bridle and saddle his horse.
Linda had intercepted him at the gate. “Seth, where are you going?” There was no time for explanations. He had to reach Leatrice before she boarded the plane. “Linda, I’m sorry. I can’t let her go.” He shook his head helplessly. “I love her.”
“Seth, she’s bewitched you. She’s no good for you,” Linda pleaded. “Let her go!” she screamed, seizing the stallion’s bridle.
“Linda, get out of the way. I told you, I love her, more than I can ever love you. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.” The finality of his statement, the determined tone of his voice, and the growing impatience and anger on his face shocked Linda into letting go of the bridle. He meant it. He loved Leatrice. She’d lost him forever. But then, had he ever truly belonged to her.
Riding his stallion like a man possessed, it would not have mattered if he did not reach her in time, because he’d have followed Leatrice to the ends of the earth. And if she had changed her mind about her feelings for him, then his life would be a living hell until he could make her love him and desire him again.
But he had been in time. And from the way she was holding him on this their wedding night, murmuring his name over and over again, cooing in his arms like a dove, there would be no need to beg for her love. It remained his. He would need now to conserve that love, nurture it, cultivate it, until it rooted so firmly that no obstacle, no amount of sorrow or tribulation, could uproot it.
A commotion erupted outside and the front door rattled under someone’s loud banging. Seth and Leatrice reluctantly let go of each other to throw on their robes in a hurry.
When Seth unlocked the front door, the space before them was empty. Further away, Tanner carried Linda, shrieking and kicking, pegged over his shoulder, to the pickup. Flinging the door to the driver’s side open, he deposited her on the seat, then quickly climbed in beside her, reaching for her before she could escape from the other side.
Leatrice turned to Seth worriedly.
“Don’t worry,” Seth advised. “Tanner would never hurt her. I’ve been watching those two this past year. And I’ve got a hunch about them.” Leatrice cast another glance at the pair in the pickup. Linda had abandoned herself to Tanner’s arms and she was crying. He held her, gently stroking her back. The tender expression on his face was unmistakable.”
“Yes, I see it.” She smiled up at Seth and was rewarded for her logic by a kiss that made her almost swoon. Seth lifted her into his arms and carried her back inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Wait, wait a minute,” Leatrice squirmed in his arms, trying to gather her wits about her. “Now put me down. I can’t think straight when you’re holding me and we have something to discuss.”
“Like what,” he asked, dropping her on his bed. At the moment all he wanted to do was make love to her again.
“Well, for one thing,” she began trying unsuccessfully to get up and past him. “Tomorrow morning I want you to get hold of a shopper’s catalog. I believe it’s time we did some redecorating. This place is ― Seth!”
Seth pinned Leatrice’s arms to the mattress.
“You were saying,” he drawled seductively.
Leatrice was determined to have her say. “This place is absolutely Middle Ages!”
“Minx,” Seth accused, refusing to let her go. “Now that you’ve dug your hooks into me, figure you can throw your weight around.”
“Naturally,” Leatrice replied.
“Don’t let the fact that I’m head over heels in love with you, or that I need you desperately, go to your head,” Seth mocked lovingly.
“Have I scored that well?”
Seth nodded. “You have what you always wanted — the power to break my heart.” It was costing him to admit how much he’d come to need her, but he’d already consigned his pride to hell. If love was blinding him and Leatrice was deceiving him.... Even the thought of it was painful. “Lee?” The pain showed on his face. Leatrice saw it immediately. “Darling, my heart is soldered to yours. If I broke your heart, mine would shatter along with it.
The fear dispersed and Seth smiled. “All right, so we fix up the house. And later we’ll call Netti and see if she’s available for rehire. Satisfied?”
“Who is Netti?” Leatrice asked perplexed.
“My former housekeeper, Mrs. McKenna. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, yes, of course. It’s that first name basis that throws me. In New York we don’t usually — “
“You’re not in New York,” Seth admonished, “You’re here with me in our home, in our bedroom, and it’s the morning after our wedding,” he said, his voice full of implications.
Lee nodded. “That’s right, I’m not in New York.” She caressed his jaw.
The touch of her fingers fueled the fire of his passion and he bent to kiss her.
“One more thing,” she said.
Seth lifted his head. What else could she want from him? He’d already given her power of attorney over his very soul. “Now what, shrew?”
Laughter dotted Leatrice’s voice. “So now I’m a shrew; a she-devil, a wealthy, spoiled easterner, and now a shrew. You do have a way with flattery.” Seth’s eyebrows narrowed. He suddenly looked dangerous. Leatrice stopped talking. And Seth burst out laughing.
“Why you — " Leatrice fought to free herself, but Seth was stronger, or perhaps Leatrice was not trying very hard.
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Finish what you were asking,” he ordered. Leatrice fought for composure. She took a deep breath. “All right. Darling, could I add ‘mother’ to that list of flatteries.”
Seth lifted his head in earnest and studied the yearning in her eyes, fully aware that she could read the longing in his. “Mrs. Driscoll,” he said softly, “God willing, that goes with the territory.”
Leatrice literally glowed with contentment. His reply was everything she could have hoped for and much more.
Seth had read somewhere that in every life there comes a moment of truth when everything changes and nothing is ever the same again. This was his moment of truth, the woman he adored and admired, in his arms, clinging to him, whispering softly, “I love you.”
Emotion welled and overflowed. “You’re my life,” Seth replied, releasing her and taking her into his arms. “The living, breathing other part of me. I belong to you completely.”
; “As I belong to you — completely,” Leatrice whispered. Clearly time would draw them ever closer, strengthening and cementing their relationship. Their differences, their stations in life, would blend, as had the Triple R and the Bar LB. Seth and she would be as one.
“As I belong to you, completely,” she repeated. “Now and forever, Driscoll’s Lady.
♥♥
*****************************
Adventure in Panama
by Paula Freda
Cover and Story Copyright © 2005 by Dorothy Paula Freda
(Pseudonym — Paula Freda)
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction, names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This novella appeared in my book Roses in the Dark (ISBN 978-1-4523-6176-5) that comprised four interwoven love stories, written by the same author, Paula Freda.
CHAPTER ONE
The mold is set, the cast complete;
The prison walls have captured love.
But love cannot be caged.
With rhinestones in her hair
and sea green veils,
Love dances, laughs, unlocks the door.
The doctor said she had almost died. That was what the girl who called herself Rosaria told her. This girl stayed with her every day. At times, a very old woman in Spanish black lace would relieve the girl. She would sit beside the bed and hold Doreen’s hand in her wrinkled fingers. She called herself Doña Maria. The old woman doddered when she moved, and her once large eyes were shrunken, the black irises paled to nebulous gray with age. Despite this, there was a lively spark in them and great warmth in her voice.
At night there was a man, a very handsome, sun-bronzed man. He would lie beside her, his body lean and sinewy. Rosaria and Doña Maria had told her that he was her husband and his name was Esteban. She accepted their word. Rosaria and her twin, Ramon, were Esteban’s younger siblings, and Doña Maria was his grandmother. Once, during the early morning hours, he attempted an intimacy and she recoiled in terror. She did not know why she felt such terror. She had no memory of his ever trying to hurt her. The man did not attempt to touch her again. But he continued to be there every night and every morning. She grew accustomed to his presence, to his face and its deep sadness.
As she regained her strength, he sat with her on the terrace each evening and spoke gently to her of her past. At those times she listened quietly, smiling childlike, enjoying the sound of his voice with its thick, rich, vibrant accent. Often his eyes, black like a starless night, grew intense with concern. Then she would feel desolate and plead with him to tell her what she had done to cause him such distress. Immediately, he’d reassure her that she was blameless, and introduce some pleasanter topic of conversation. Esteban owned and operated a nightclub. Late in the evening it was his custom to leave for his club. A terrible loneliness would descend upon Doreen until he returned during the early morning hours.
Once, after he slid quietly under the covers so as not to disturb her sleep, she heard pitiful, muffled sobs. She turned and looked at her husband. He was lying on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow, and he was crying. She wanted desperately to comfort him, to ask him what was wrong. She almost touched his shoulder, but that same ugly feeling of impending disaster alerted every nerve in her body and she drew her hand back as if she had been about to touch a poisonous cobra. It made no sense to her. The man was unhappy. She was his wife. She should ease his pain, but her mind would not let her. She lay back puzzling. After a while the man stopped crying and his breathing grew steady and strong, like the tropical zephyrs that hummed and danced, riffling the fronds on the tall palm trees outside the villa. Esteban was asleep.
On Sunday, Doreen’s brother and his ward, Cybelle, arrived. Esteban had cabled them to come and they had cut short their vacation in Italy to visit her. Mark embraced his sister warmly, but she did not remember him. Worry lines etched themselves across his brow.
To lighten the mood, Esteban suggested a picnic for that afternoon. After they had eaten, Esteban invited them to follow him up a forested hill. He had something to show them. At the edge of the hill he turned. "This is a vantage point. You can see all three sections of Panama City." He pointed to one end where the peninsula jutted out into the Pacific Bay. "There... Old Panama, ransacked and left in ruins by Henry Morgan in the latter part of the seventeenth century."
In the sunlight Esteban’s hair glinted blue-black and his skin was like muted brass. Cool ocean breezes found the openings at his cuffs and collar, and tunneling through, billowed his white silk shirt. Doreen stopped and caught her breath. She was poignantly aware that the man speaking was her husband.
"And over there..." his hand moved clockwise. "Colonial Panama with its iron-woven balconies and slim cobblestone streets, and old courtyards luxuriant with flora. There the Church of San Jose guards the Golden Altar, baroque art at its loveliest. The people themselves, who very cunningly painted the altar to resemble wood, saved the Altar, at one time located in a church in Old Panama, from Henry Morgan’s destruction. And there..." he moved his arm drawing an invisible arc, "Modern Panama, facing the Bay."
She should have remembered such a view, especially since Rosaria had informed her that she had lived in Panama for the past eight years. But she didn’t remember. The sun shone upon the city’s white buildings as they reached for the sky. The smaller red-roofed structures sat placidly midst leafy trees and tall palms that wove together with its streets, reminding her of a golden chain set with emeralds.
As Esteban continued to point out other historical sites of his special world, she caught Mark watching her. She had no memory of her brother, or his ward, or the elegant colonial mansion in the Hudson River Valley that he had so painstakingly described in his attempt to resurrect her memory. Since his arrival this morning, Mark had exchanged polite conversation with Esteban, but she had sensed an undercurrent between the two men, as though they awaited anxiously an opportunity to speak alone about some serious matter.
As for Cybelle, the young woman was in a class all her own, petite and vibrant, with a small, firm chin, and shoulders that were straight and resolute. Doreen envied her hair that fell in soft curls about her oval face and reminded her of glazed milk chocolate. She also noted that Cybelle was in love with Mark. One had to be blind not to see how her gaze followed him tenderly about. What a match they might make. Even without her memory, Doreen had noticed at once that Mark was a sophisticate, while Cybelle was a well-mannered rustic.
As the foursome started downhill, Cybelle joined her. "It’s a dream world! You must be very happy living here," she said.
"I share your enthusiasm, especially as my memory only stretches to a few weeks ago. Everything you’re seeing is new to me as well." She had to know, "Cybelle, does my brother love you?"
The girl’s brown eyes hooded.
"Forgive me, I shouldn’t have asked."
"No, it’s all right. It’s just that I don’t want to say ‘No.’ I haven’t given up yet."
Doreen smiled. "Don’t give up. I’d be proud to call you sister-in-law." They left the hill and in Esteban’s white open convertible drove through the City for a closer look at the three parts he had described to them earlier. They returned to the villa for dinner.
Cybelle was a loquacious minx. She monopolized Doreen at the dinner table. Ramon, Rosaria and Doña Maria appeared tranquil, but except for Cybelle, Doreen once again sensed an undercurrent of apprehension and expectancy. The meal over, they all filed from the elegant Spanish dining room into the vestibule. Esteban shouldered Mark and led him toward his study. Ramon wandered off. As Rosaria and Doña Maria retired to the sitting room, Cybelle asked Doreen to show her the gardens and walk with her. Neither of the two women planned to eavesdrop when they walked into the garden behind Esteban’s study, but the window was opened and they could hear the two men spea
king.
"They’re talking about you," Cybelle whispered to Doreen.
"We should go," Doreen said.
"Don’t you want to hear what they’re saying?"
Doreen felt a tightening in her chest. "I’m afraid."
"Why?"
"I don’t know. Maybe because I’m content with the present."
"And you might hear something from the past you don’t want to."
Doreen nodded.
"You’ll never get your memory back by running away. Come on let’s get closer. If we stoop we can hide beneath the window and hear them clearly."
"What exactly happened to my sister?" Mark was saying.
"Sit down brother-in-law. What I have to say is partly to my disfavor and partly to your sister’s."
Cybelle became totally engrossed in Esteban’s account. She failed to see Doreen paling and clutching her chest, trembling and perspiring, while hazy images flitted through her mind, images that made no sense — rhinestones and sea-green veils, and Esteban’s face furious and frightening. Doreen screamed as she saw herself falling into a black bottomless pit.
She heard Esteban calling her name frenziedly, and the shuffling sound of bodies climbing out the window to reach her, followed by her brother’s voice, angry and curt, directed at Cybelle. No, he mustn’t blame her... It wasn’t her fault. Someone gathered her into a pair of arms. Then nothing seemed to matter any more. The bottomless pit yawned beneath her, but she was no longer afraid. She abandoned herself to its darkness.
CHAPTER TWO
Doreen woke under the covers in the Master bedroom. Esteban slept in the wing chair by the unlit fireplace a few feet away. He looked exhausted, drained. His jacket was thrown over the chair’s back, and his tie hung loose and careless on either side of his unbuttoned collar. She watched him and felt resentment flare, but now she remembered why. She turned her head away with loathing. She could not bear to look at him. He had been napping as well that morning three months ago on the lounge outside on the terrace. The restored memory was so vivid that she felt catapulted into the past, a bystander watching from the glass-paned door that led from the bedroom to one end of the terrace...