by Ruth Wind
Molly sipped her coffee, letting the story settle. A soft sense of admiration went through her, that a man would honor a promise that caused him so much personal difficulty. "Why not apply for citizenship?"
His smile was bitter and knowing. He did not even bother with a reply, only shook his head.
Molly knew a little of the problems of Mexican nationals gaining citizenship in the United States. Given the political and social impact of such immigrants on the local economy, as well as the ancient Spanish colonial roots of the region, the subject was in the news a lot. "I guess you aren't a Nobel prize – winning scientist, huh?" she said lightly.
He rewarded her with a grin. And this time, it wasn't a small quirk of the lips, but the whole thing. White teeth in a half moon, a wide, flashing grin. It hit her the same way it had last night – right through the solar plexus. "No scientist," he said, and spread his strong brown hands, palm up. "Only a horseman and a farmer. Plenty here already."
"I'm sorry," Molly said impulsively.
He shrugged. "I tried, you know, to find someone to marry me. For money. And there was an old woman, in Colorado, who was going to do the paperwork for me another time, so I could help her with her yard." He shook his head.
Molly noticed suddenly that he was still sweating, and his left arm stayed protectively wrapped around his ribs. "Let me get you some more medicine," she said. "And then you should go back to bed."
"What I would like, señora, very much, is to bathe." He inclined his head, modestly, and met her gaze. "I do not think I can do it alone."
"I'll help you," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm only sorry I didn't think of it myself." She stood and held out a hand. "It will make you feel better."
He looked at his hands.
Molly chuckled. "I won't look," she said. "Much."
A smile edged his mouth, abashed and accepting. Molly helped him to his feet.
* * *
His saint put her strong shoulder under his arm again, and helped him down the hall. It was easier with her, easier on his pains, anyway. Not so easy in some other ways. From his vantage point above her, the crown of her blond and brown and gilt hair was visible, but so was the top swell of her breasts. He tried not to look, but each time he moved his eyes, it seemed there was that slope of smooth white flesh again. Nothing on earth would have aroused him exactly in his current state, but if he could have been, that slope of smooth pale skin would have more than done it.
Up close, she smelled of wind and sage and soap. Faint hints of cinnamon came from her breath. Her braid slithered along his arm, silky and heavy at once, and he wondered how her hair looked when it was not braided.
She led him to a bathroom that he had not seen. This was big, nearly as big, as his bedroom at the farm, and it was not like any room he'd seen before. Warm pine panels covered the walls, varnished carefully to seal the moisture out. A huge old tub on claw feet dominated one corner. Plants hung around skylights and a ring of windows along the top of the wall. "Very nice," he said.
"My husband's pride and joy." She settled him on the closed lid of the toilet. "He was a carpenter."
He glanced down, and saw the wedding ring still lived on her left hand. Choosing not to ask his questions, he said only, "A good one."
She straightened, looking around with pleasure as she efficiently tied her braid in a knot. The position put her breasts in silhouette, and he saw they were shaped like commas, heavier at the bottom curve.
"Yes, he was," she said, and met his eyes, answering the question he had not asked. "I'm a widow. He died four years ago."
"I am sorry."
A sad smile. "Me, too." Briskly, she bent over and dropped a plug in the drain and turned on the water. "Nice and hot?"
Alejandro nodded.
"What we're going to do here is—" she opened a linen closet and took out a pile of towels she set on the sink "—you can undress to your skivvies, and I'll help you with whatever you can't manage, then leave you to the rest."
"Skivvies?"
"Underwear. Then I'll bring you fresh clothes and you can manage the covering-up part, and I'll help you get dressed." She smiled. "Okay?"
Her attitude was so sensible it made his modesty seem foolish. He lifted his shoulder, caught his breath against the pain that spread in a band over his chest and said in a strangled voice, "Okay."
Her laughter was soft. "Come on, big boy, hand over the shirt."
It was not nearly as humiliating as he'd feared. Her no-nonsense hands braced him as he undressed to his "skivvies" and her strong, small body provided the support he needed to get into the tub. He could not suppress a groan of pleasure as he sank into the water.
"Too hot?"
"No, no. Perfect."
"Maybe the heat will ease some of your stiffness. Let me get your hair washed and I'll leave you to soak a little while."
"Oh, you do not need—"
"Alejandro."
It was the first time she had said his name, and in her softly husky voice, it was beautiful. He raised his eyes. She looked down at him, a patient expression on her mouth. "You can't wash your hair. You can't lift your arms."
"No," he admitted.
"Do me a favor." She knelt beside the tub, putting her face on the same level as his own. "I'm a nurse. I do these things all the time. Stop being humiliated every time you run into something you can't do, okay?"
A wave of gratitude overtook him. Gripping his knees with his hands, he met her gaze. "When this is done, you must promise you will let me repay you for your great kindness, Saint Molly. Okay?"
"Okay." She grinned. "Now let me wash your hair."
She dippered water into a cup and poured it over his head. "Close your eyes."
He did. And finally, he took her advice, too. He gave himself up to letting her take care of him. He let the tension and grief and worry drain from his neck as her fingers worked over his scalp. As if the water washed away his negative emotions along with the grime of two days from his skin, he felt peace invade him. Her fingers were strong, working in the shampoo, then conditioner that smelled of musk. She rinsed it out, pushing his long hair back from his face, and he heard a soft sound come from her. He opened his eyes.
She ducked her head, hiding her expression, and reached for the soap. "I'm going to do your back, then leave you to the rest."
Was that breathlessness for him? He turned to look at her, suddenly feeling the intimacy of the moment, of himself wet and nearly naked, with a woman he had never seen forty-eight hours ago. Steam came off his limbs and the water, making her skin damp and flushed. The T-shirt clung to her breasts and waist, outlining a very female figure that Alejandro suddenly wanted to touch. He was suddenly aware of his body, not the pain in it, but the shape of his shoulders and chest, of his legs sticking out of the water, of his back. He wondered if she found him pleasing, and looked for that knowledge on her face.
But she did not allow it. She ducked behind him, rubbing his back in circles with the soapy cloth, then efficiently rinsing it off. Then, abruptly, she stood. "Finish up," she said, pushing a tendril of hair off her face with a wet hand. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
Perplexed, he nodded, and stared after her as she bolted.
Then he leaned back in the water, gently so as not to jar the faraway state of his assorted aches, and let the heat seep into him, all the way to his bones.
* * *
In the hallway, Molly halted and fell against the wall. Air cooled her sweaty, humid skin, but her heart still raced and her hands were definitely trembling. She took a breath, blew it out slowly, feeling a tingle in her ears, all the way around the edge, making them hot. She lifted her hands to them, and found her hands were still wet. She hadn't even bothered to dry them.
In her years as a nurse, she had bathed hundreds – probably thousands – of patients. Old and young, male and female. There was a trick to keeping the mind distant, apart, not only for the nurse, but to preserve the privacy and dignity of
the patient.
And she'd been in control with Alejandro until he raised his head, and all at once she'd seen the entirety of his revealed, wet skin, with rivulets of water pooling in the hollow of his collarbone, coursing along the geography of his arm muscles. She'd seen his perfectly shaped ear and the blade of his nose and the high forehead and his wet hair, slicked away from his face by her own hands. In one turn of a second she was not a nurse bathing a patient, but a woman bewitched by an utterly stunning man.
She moved her hands from her ears to her face. Her breasts felt thick and heavy, and her hips were soft. All too clearly, she could see herself returning to that room and putting her mouth to the round place where his arm and shoulder met. She could see her hand spreading open on that chest, scattered with dark hair.
Stop. For the second time in one day, she told herself to just quit it. Get ahold of herself.
This time, she tried a more realistic approach. Taking her hands away from her face, she marched to her bedroom and the bureau, yanking open a drawer with more force than necessary, and delivered a lecture to herself as she tossed through the clothes.
One: she was overstimulated. This interlude had been more exciting than anything that had happened to her in years. A mysterious stranger with a heartbreaking quest had landed in her lap and required care. Needed her.
Two: he was absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous. Any woman who didn't respond to that much virile heat in one package was comatose or dead. She was neither; in fact, she was a widow, a healthy woman in her prime.
Three: she had not had sex in four years. Four years. It was a long time. A really long time. A really, really long time.
She caught her wry, amused expression in the mirror over the dresser and it made her grin. The reflection smiled back. Molly noticed that her hair was springing out of its braid and the front of her shirt was wet – had he noticed? He certainly had not seemed to. He was, in fact, singularly unmoved by his nurse. Often men in his situation would think they were attracted to a woman, simply because she'd saved his life. Alejandro appeared to have no such illusions.
She chuckled and stripped off the wet T-shirt.
From the drawer she took a fresh blouse. Again she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and stopped. Ordinary was a good word. Slim shoulders, a good stomach that showed no signs yet of pooching out. Good thing, she thought, touching the expanse of belly over her jeans. Wouldn't take much pooch to overshadow her breasts. She touched them, too, and remembered, for one blinding second, what it had felt like to have her husband's hands on her. How much he'd liked coming up behind her at moments like this. She would lean back, into his broad, strong chest, and lift her hands to his neck, letting him admire the look of his hands on her breasts in the mirror.
The memory was vivid – and in seconds, sharply painful. She dropped her hands, half ashamed, half yearning. With a sigh, she pulled on her shirt. Tim was gone. Gone. Someday maybe she'd get that through her head.
Taking a fresh shirt and sweats, she returned to the bathroom and knocked. "Are you finished?"
No answer.
"Alejandro?" Still nothing. Worried, she knocked once more for the sake of warning and opened the door.
Inside, she stopped and smiled. He had fallen asleep. His hands draped over the edges of the tub and his head was cradled on the little pillow she'd glued to the back, and his knees were akimbo. A glaze of moisture covered the beautiful face, and she felt a prick of something besides desire. He pushed so hard, this man, pushed out of pride and honor. The least she could do was serve that honor as well as she could. Get him well and send him on his way.
She bent over him. Reached out to touch his face. "Come on, viejo," she said gently. "Let's get you back to bed."
* * *
Chapter 5
«^»
Josh stopped by the pharmacy at Judson's to pick up some medicine for the kids. "Hey, George," he said to the thin, graying man behind the counter. "Lynette told me you had some cough syrup for my rug-rats. Is it ready?"
"Sure is." He looked over his reading glasses to measure something. "Damn near everybody's down with this crud, you notice?"
"It's been pretty hairy, all right." Josh leaned on the counter and glanced toward the toy section, eyeing a baby doll with red skirts. Both kids had been miserable for days – maybe he could pick up a toy for each of them. Raise their spirits.
He counted the money from his front pocket. A five, three ones and a twenty. Maybe. "How much is that medicine gonna run?" he asked.
"Well, let's see. Your co-payment is ten, isn't it?" He punched something into the computer. "Yep. Just ten."
Josh paid for the cough syrup. "I guess I should count my blessings. At least my job has benefits."
"That's right." George opened the register. "How's your sister doing, by the way? Saw her last night, and she had to refill her prescription for antibiotics. Nasty sore throat."
"Last night?" Josh frowned. Last night, she'd bought him a steak and chattered his ear off. If she'd been sick, she sure hadn't looked it. "I don't know. I'll have to give her a call."
The man gave Josh his change, a crisp ten-dollar bill, and he tucked it in his pocket, frowning as he wandered over to check the price on the doll. Molly sick? He didn't think so. Why had she lied?
He picked up the doll and looked for the price. Thirty-two dollars. He put it back, and wandered down another aisle of pink stuff. In the end, he picked out a doctor kit for Rochelle and a sticker book for Danny – both together didn't burn the whole ten-dollar bill he used to pay, and it made him feel better.
Until, on his way out, he saw a Mexican national – you could always tell, they were so much smaller, so much darker than the Hispanic population here – buying that thirty-two-dollar doll.
He tried. On the way to the parking lot, he combated the rising burn in his gut by telling himself the guy probably just got paid and was sending a special treat back home. Maybe it was his daughter's birthday.
But it didn't help. The fact remained: the other guy's kid got the doll. Rochelle got a lousy doctor kit. It wasn't fair.
As he started the truck, he wondered again what was going on with his sister. She was acting weird. Maybe he'd stop by the hospital on the way home and see what he could find out.
* * *
Late in the day, Alejandro stirred again. And this time, he did not feel as if he were swimming through a murky density of pain and confusion. He was aware immediately of the cautionary band of pain around his chest, but it was subdued.
His head was clear. He blinked, testing it, and realized that the latest nap had restored something he'd barely noticed was missing – his sense of himself and his place in the world. He felt as if he'd really slept, instead of simply sliding into unconsciousness.
Carefully, he stood up and found new strength in his limbs, found he could limp gently on his gun-shot leg without too much agony, and his ribs did not jolt unless he moved too quickly.
Progress.
The long glass door in the kitchen stood open, the drapes pulled aside to reveal the small plots of land carefully planted with flowers and what he thought might be herbs. Twilight leaked into the edges of the sky.
And sitting on the steps of the wide porch was his Saint Molly. He leaned against the wall for a moment; startled by his reaction to the simple act she indulged.
She was brushing her hair.
It was beautiful. Very long, draping over her shoulders and falling down her back. She brushed it idly, slowly, as if it pleased her to feel the bristles on her scalp, then she rolled her head and the hair slid and swished over her arms and back, and he could tell she was enjoying the feel of it on her body.
A pulse beat softly just below his ribs, and he found himself remembering the shape of her breasts when she'd tied up her hair this morning. A sudden acute and vivid imagining appeared in his head, a detailed vision of that gilt and sunlight and earthen hair draped over her naked breasts.
He discove
red he was not beyond arousal any longer. He was likely beyond acting on it, but his body seemed to have no trouble expressing its approval. Taking a breath, he looked away and counted silently, until the edge of it eased.
Then he limped through the kitchen to the door. "Buenas tardes," he said quietly. "Is it safe for me to join you outside, señora?"
She turned, and her hair shifted, some of it spilling down her front, bringing back that erotic vision. "Sí," she replied, smiling gently. "Por favor."
He eyed the steps dubiously, and she leaped up, extended her hand. Alejandro took it. In his big, dark one, hers was slim and held the illusion of fragility. Illusion only, for he'd experienced that strength, experienced it now as she braced him, helped him ease down one step so he could sit with her.
She settled one step below him. He looked out at the gloaming, feeling something quiet in him. And Molly did not speak, either, seemingly content with the soft chatter of birds in a tree and the distant whisper of an awakening cricket.
Suddenly, the cicadas clicked on, a thousand score of them, roaring to life on the same note, all at the same instant, their music a sonnet in the graying world. Alejandro looked at the trees, knowing the insects would be invisible, but looking anyway, as he always did. They whirred in their rhythmic way for a few minutes, then as suddenly as they'd begun, cut off with the finality of a conductor's baton. He grinned and spread his hands, palm down. "Finished!"
"Don't you always wonder how they know to start and stop like that? So many of them, all at once."
Once he had known, but he couldn't remember now. "I do."
Just beyond his knee, the extravagance of her hair spilled down her back, and he inched his fingers along his thigh, aching to brush his fingertips over it. "You look very young with your hair down."
Self-consciously, she gathered a handful of it. "Think so? I keep thinking lately it's time to cut it. My mother always said a woman should cut her hair when she was thirty."