Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  “The Señor will have your head?” Jace finished for him.

  “Among other things. But you’re probably right,” Felipe admitted. He took another glance behind him. “Oh, look at that,” he called out as he swung around.

  A flock of turkey vultures circled lazily above, their massive wings stretched to the limit, never moving. The sunlight caught the undersides of their wings, flashing silver as the birds floated effortlessly in the air.

  The silence settled again as they watched the birds. They’d reached that stage of friendship where the silences between them were just as satisfying as the conversations. Felipe was exactly as he’d presented himself from the beginning: a kind, decent man with a perhaps too-large heart. His initial impulse was always to help.

  Except with Franny—but Jace sensed Franny was a special case for Felipe in more ways than one.

  As the quiet continued on, Jace took in what he hoped would be his new home. The rolling spires of the high country enclosing them on all sides, the never-ceasing whisper of the breeze through the pines, the scrub surrounding the road—all of it pleased him like no other place he’d ever seen.

  Home.

  The urge to push that word away had left him sometime in the last few weeks. And last night… he’d lacked a clear definition of home before she’d given it to him.

  A house, some children, some cows.

  And her. She belonged in that list as well. If he wanted to lie to himself, he’d say that it was a wife that was lacking, not her specifically. But in truth, the only woman who belonged in the dream of home that came to him was the one who’d conjured it.

  But she’d said last night it couldn’t happen again. He hadn’t demanded the reasons—if she said it couldn’t be, he’d accept it and save his railing against fate for the privacy of his own thoughts.

  In the distance, he spied a house set some distance from the trail. He didn’t pay it much mind since it couldn’t be the abandoned homestead they were looking for; they hadn’t been riding long enough.

  As they passed the house, Felipe unexpectedly drew rein.

  Jace looked around for the problem. If it were Franny, perhaps he could speak to her first and save some harsh words from Felipe. She said she didn’t care, but the set of her mouth when Felipe lit into her said that she did.

  But all he saw was the little house, whose sagging roof and porch rails gave it away as abandoned. More than that, the place had an indescribable air—as if the soul had gone out of the house along with the inhabitants.

  He turned to Felipe, to see what had caught his attention—

  The other man was crying. Not great gulping sobs. Just the glitter of moisture and a touch of red in his eyes, but still unmistakably tears.

  Panicky bubbles began to form in Jace’s chest, working their way up to his throat.

  Catarina’s tears in the dark last night had made him feel the same—all jittery and tied up. But her hand in his—that had felt… right.

  He gave himself a shake and stared hard at the stitching on his saddle horn. His mind remained stubbornly blank of any words of comfort, and he couldn’t even pass over a handkerchief, since Catarina still had his.

  What a poor excuse for a friend he was. His time on the Circle T had prepared him for many things, but not this. Not for a friend in need.

  He darted a glance at Felipe. The other man’s eyes looked drier now, but his mouth continued to droop toward his chin.

  “Ah—are uh, uh—are you, um…? You know, are you—are you feeling all right?” Christ, if he stuttered anymore, he’d be tripping over his own tongue. Pathetic. Felipe helped him at every turn, and all he could do was blurt out nonsense.

  Felipe stared at the sad little house, blinking hard. But when he spoke, there were no tears in his voice. “This is my house.”

  Home. This had been Felipe’s home once. After last night, Jace had a better understanding of what this place might mean to the other man.

  The words came now. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “My father built this house twenty-five years ago. I was born here and so were my three sisters.” The flatness of his voice spoke to the depth of Felipe’s hurt more than a whole river of tears could. “About eight years ago, diphtheria went through here. We all caught it: Papa, Mama, and the girls. I was the last one to come down with it. I went to sleep and when I woke up a week later, they were gone.”

  He pointed to a small fenced plot partly hidden by some stately pepper trees. “They’re buried right over there. I was fifteen, had no family to take me, no place to go.” He sighed. “The Señor and the Señora had been friends of my family from the very beginning, so I went to live at Rancho Moreno.”

  Taking in orphans, dispensing advice to whomever asked—perhaps there was yet hope for Jace to find his way to the Señor’s good side. But then, Felipe would inspire compassion in even the hardest of hearts.

  Felipe blinked hard, as if coming out of some kind of spell, and sent a sheepish smile Jace’s way, not quite meeting his gaze. “Sorry, I…” he trailed off. “Silly, I know, but it’s still difficult, after all these years.”

  If Jace’s tongue had been tied before, it simply vanished now. What could he possibly say?

  I had a family. I turned my back on them thirteen years ago.

  A deep prickling started at his neck, running along his spine. Guilt.

  He shifted in the saddle to throw it off. He’d had to leave—his father would have stopped at nothing to transform Jace into a gentleman.

  Jace would have stopped at nothing to become a rancher. He was almost there. What he’d lost, the years of solitude—it would be worth it once he had a ranch of his own.

  Sisters—they’d been one of the things he’d lost. He’d had them once. Perhaps still did, if they yet lived.

  Not for the first time, he missed them. With an ache in his gut and throat. Missed his bossy older sister Barbara, who would scold him even as she bandaged his childish wounds. Missed Diana, the little scamp who used to annoy the hell out of him. Of course, after thirteen years, they’d be grown up now and were probably nothing like he remembered.

  He could have written. Could have sent a wire—a handful of words, simply to say he was alive. But he hadn’t. Once he’d arrived at the Circle T, he’d sworn his first letter back would be the one describing the ranch he owned. If he couldn’t announce himself in triumph to his father, he wouldn’t announce himself at all. So he hadn’t.

  But soon. Soon he would.

  He didn’t dare breathe a word of this to Felipe. The man would probably give his soul to have his family back again. Like the name Bannister, the story of Jace’s escape from his family would be something to hide deeply, until… well, until he didn’t know when. Once he’d figured out all this entanglement business and the owing of favors and being part of a community—then he’d know how to tell all of this.

  “That orchard’s in good shape.” There, trees were innocuous enough. Couldn’t think about absent sisters or dead parents when one was discussing trees.

  Felipe followed the line of Jace’s finger, his face easing back into its more usual expression. “Catarina cares for the orchard. She offered as a favor, since it was my mother’s pride and joy. Honestly, I think the sight of all those fruit trees falling into ruin would have been too much for her to handle. She has a talent for these things, you know.”

  He’d sensed that last night. Catarina was made to make a home. A shame she could never make his.

  But she’d said it couldn’t happen. And if the Señor ever learned the name Jace had been born under, it would be more than dark looks sent his way. He could almost see the Señor as he spat the name “Bannister” at him, Catarina turning from him in horror.

  Not that he’d blame them.

  The Bannisters had earned that contempt from Mexican California in blood. His grandfather’s most repeated advice: Always best to shoot a greaser on sight. Even the women.

  Of course, th
e old man had his reasons. Having your Mexican daughter-in-law—the infamous Black Widow Alvarado—shoot your eldest son through the heart would color a man’s opinion on these things.

  “She mentioned there were still some peaches left in the orchard,” Felipe was saying. “Want one?”

  Jace shook off the memories. “Of course.”

  They turned their horses toward the orchard that lay in the distance. A small herd carrying the distinctive linked R and M grazed in a corral east of the orchard.

  “The Señor runs his cattle on your land?” Jace asked.

  “He does.” The words were obstinate, although Jace hadn’t meant to provoke with the question. “The Morenos took me in and kept me. It’s the least I could do.”

  “You have the land and the experience.” Jace frowned. “Why don’t you set up your own operation here? It’s your land—don’t you want those to be your cattle?”

  Felipe stared at the herd. “Maybe someday,” he said. “But not today.”

  Jace stared after the herd for a moment, puzzling on that. With this land, Felipe was more than halfway to the dream that had driven Jace these many years. How could he not want all of it?

  I want more.

  She’d given him those words last night as well, a summation of everything he’d ever wanted.

  And Jace was going to have it.

  The low peach tree rustled as they approached, jostled by the lady whose skirts and shapely ankles were visible beneath the foliage she was entangled in.

  “That you, Catarina?” Felipe asked as they drew rein.

  Jace’s pulse thumped against his veins as the curves of the lady’s backside were thrown into sharp, enticing relief when she wriggled her way backwards out of the branches.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she called cheerfully as she turned around. “Oh,” Catarina said as she caught sight of Jace. A burlap sack was slung across her shoulders, bulging at her hip. Lady Bountiful, bringing in the harvest. A mouthwatering harvest, no doubt.

  “Hello, Señor.” Her greeting was polite enough, but her eyes were wary. Meeting in the dark was one thing. In the daylight was quite another.

  He tipped his hat. “Señorita.” She wasn’t the only one feeling awkward having to retreat behind the polite fiction of being nothing more than strangers.

  He wondered if she carried his handkerchief even now, pressed against her somewhere under all those clothes.

  “Can you spare any peaches for us?” Felipe asked.

  “Yes, of course. This is the last of them. After this, they’ll be canned, not fresh.”

  “Well, your canned peaches are almost as good.”

  The compliment brought forth her smile, the one with the dimples. She handed Felipe his first, before turning to Jace, peeping up through her lashes as she held out a ripe peach, a blush covering it from bloom end to stem.

  At that moment, watching the lady offer him that fruit, he understood exactly why Adam fell. If Eve had looked anything like Catarina did, the poor dumb bastard never had a chance.

  Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he bent from the back of his horse and took the fuzzy peach, his hands brushing hers as he did. The peach fit perfectly in his palm, just as he’d imagined her breasts might. As he brought the fruit to his lips, the unmistakable scent filled his nose, spicy, sweet, and warm all at once. He bit, hard, and his mouth flooded with the juice, running down his chin.

  The memory of last night came rushing back to him, her scent teasing him as he’d clasped her hand, a scent he’d called cinnamon to match her eyes.

  He’d been wrong; she didn’t smell like that at all. She smelled exactly like a peach at the height of summer. Lush and spicy, with a promise of the sweetness to come.

  The man who married her would have his house filled with that scent, would lie down with her at night and breathe it as he slept. The scent would mean home for that man.

  Jace would never again be able to smell a peach without thinking of her.

  Christ almighty, but he was in deep.

  “We’re headed out to the old Schuyler place,” Felipe said.

  Jace was grateful for the interruption to his prurient thoughts, and for the reminder of why they were there today.

  “Joaquin finally got permission to auction it off?” she asked.

  Felipe shrugged. “I suppose the government decided, after a year of no one hearing from them, that they weren’t coming back. Jace thought he might try for it, if it suits him.”

  “Congratulations, Señor,” she said with a hint of chill. “It seems you’ll be getting your ranch very soon.”

  “Only if I like the place,” he said steadily, “and only if I’m not outbid.”

  I wish to God I could try for you, too.

  Felipe shook his head. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that.”

  “I’ve only been out there once. It was quite nice when the Schuylers had it,” she said, the chill gone. “But I’ve no idea what it’s like now after a year of neglect.”

  “Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?” he said, turning Spot back toward the road. If he was going to keep away, he needed to go now.

  “Thank you for the peaches,” Felipe called as he headed off.

  Jace tipped his hat once more. “Thank you, Señorita.”

  “Good luck.” She waved after them, her other hand holding some windblown strands of hair from her eyes and a bag of peaches at her hip, looking like something a man would want to come home to.

  He didn’t acknowledge her wave; he simply took another bite of peach, the perfection of its taste driving his eyes shut.

  “It’s perfect.”

  Jace couldn’t believe it. In the shadow of Mount Portola, here was the ideal place, waiting for a rancher and a herd. Everything—the corrals, the barns, the house—was in decent order, as if time had stood still when the last owner had left. It seemed almost too good to be true.

  He spun around again, taking another inventory. Two barns, large enough to comfortably house cattle, horses, and fodder all winter long. Several corrals, the fences in disrepair, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. And a cozy little house, with a wide porch framing the front, ideal for two rocking chairs side by side.

  “You say no one’s been here for a year?” he asked Felipe.

  “No one’s seen them for a year. The Schuylers kept to themselves mostly. James Harper noticed they hadn’t been into town for some time, so he sent his boys out here, and they were gone. Packed up most of their things and disappeared.”

  “Why’d they just up and leave?”

  Felipe shrugged. “No one knows for certain. Schuyler spent a lot of time and money fixing this place up, but he didn’t know anything about cattle, and wouldn’t listen to anyone’s advice. My guess? He knew he was about to lose the place through his own mismanagement, and decided to run off before his debts swallowed him.”

  Jace knew all about good management. He wouldn’t be run off this place or swallowed by his debts.

  Some day, son, this will all be yours.

  If he bought this place, his grandfather’s words wouldn’t be an empty memory echoing out over a ranch now lost. He’d say them to his own son—and no man would make a liar out of him.

  “And the place sat here, unoccupied, until now?” he asked.

  “No one knew if or when they were coming back, so nothing could be done with the place.”

  “So they just left it all,” he muttered, more to himself than to Felipe. His gaze ran greedily over the rich pasture enclosed by barbed wire, more than enough to feed a sizable herd. The creek ran through the property, so except in cases of extreme drought, he’d never hurt for water. Being this close to the high country meant he’d have all the free grazing a man could want in the summer—once he had the grazing permits.

  He slowly spun in place. He could see it, his herds riding over this land, carrying the L7 brand—for Lucky Number Seven, since Lady Luck and that number had always served him well—and he, Jace
Merrill, as the boss of it all.

  Exactly as he’d dreamed about since he was a boy, looking out at the acres that his grandfather had promised to him.

  Another childhood memory rose then: his last glimpse of the Rancho Alvarado. Or at least what had been left of it.

  When Jace was five, his grandfather passed. An hour after the casket was lowered into the earth, William Bannister hauled his family off to Los Angeles. The Bannisters would no longer be cattlemen, clutching the bloodstained deed to the largest rancho in California. They would become gentlemen.

  Jace knew what his grandfather would have said to that: If only your Uncle Tommy hadn’t been killed by that greaser wife of his. He’d have never done such a thing. Never have turned his back on who we are.

  When he was fifteen—the decade after his grandfather’s death being spent in schoolrooms and drawing rooms, trussed into a gentleman’s clothes—his father took them all to see the Rancho Alvarado one last time.

  The porch where he’d sat with his grandfather was long gone. So were the sagebrush and the rolling hills, all of it scraped flat and bare by the earth movers crawling along it, choking clouds of dust rising behind the machines.

  Instead of cows, half-built houses dotted the denuded acres—hundreds and hundreds, stretching past the horizon. He and his sisters had looked out over the land that had been carved into subdivisions, land that had been sold to the highest bidder, and listened as Judge Bannister crowed about the achievement.

  Jace had felt stripped as bare as those acres had been, his final, foolish dream of ranching as his grandfather had revealed for what it was—an illusion. There was no ranch waiting for him, no pastureland waiting for his herds to roam across it.

  There were only the confines of his father’s house waiting—waiting for Judge Bannister to return and resume pressing his son into a replica of himself.

  That night, Jace packed his bags, leaving behind the schoolbooks and the suits, and headed out to Bakersfield. He’d taken on a new name to hide from whomever his father might have sent to drag him back.

  Once his true name was on the deed to this place, he’d finally send that letter, the one he’d sworn would be the first home. A letter informing Judge Bannister that his plans for his son had all come to naught—and that Jace’s plans for himself had all come about.