A stone lodged in her chest and her hand clenched as if grasping a handkerchief. A handkerchief she shouldn’t have been given.
Laura caught her expression. “Oh, Catarina.” Pity dripped from her voice, enough to make Catarina’s stomach twist.
Of course Laura meant well, but Catarina didn’t want pity or sympathy or understanding—she wanted more. Even if she couldn’t have it. Or him.
Suddenly, Laura turned green and clapped her hands to her mouth, falling forward over her belly.
Catarina’s heart tried to leap from her chest. “Laura, what’s wrong?”
“Outside, outside, quickly!” Laura groaned through her fingers.
Catarina grabbed her friend’s shoulders and pushed her through the crowd out into the cool night air, everyone mercifully scrambling away. But still not fast enough for Catarina, her heart knocking frantically against her ribs. There was no jealousy in her now—only fear for her ill friend.
Once free of the leaden air of the barn, Laura grabbed her knees and took deep, heaving breaths of the chilled night air, sounding like a winded horse.
Then she was sick all over both their shoes.
Catarina impotently rubbed her friend’s back as Laura hung over her huge belly. Oh, if only her mother were here—she’d know instantly what to do.
Dear Lord, what if this meant the baby was coming? The fear running through her veins solidified into outright terror.
What would she do if Laura’s time were at hand? She wasn’t her mother, wasn’t married—she’d no experience with these things.
And Laura was still retching into the dirt, completely unable to speak.
Never had Catarina wished so desperately for her mother, not even as a child with skinned knees.
At least one of the saints must have been listening, for her mama came sailing out of the Whitmans’ house, radiating serenity and capability as she made her way over to Catarina and the still-sick Laura.
“Oh, Mama, we were inside, and suddenly Laura was ill! Is something wrong?” Her voice fractured on the last.
“No, mija, this sometimes happens as it gets closer to the time for the baby to come. It is like the sickness at the beginning, perfectly natural.”
“You mean I’ll be sick at the end, too?” Laura moaned to the ground.
“There, there, you’ll be all right,” her mama said as she helped Laura straighten up. “Come into the house and we will wash you up.”
In typical fashion, Marcus decided to make his heroic entrance then, skidding around the corner of the barn. “Laura, are you all right?”
The concern on his face was a shot straight to Catarina’s heart. The man really did love his wife, loved her as Laura deserved. The jealousy rose again, as sudden as Laura’s bout of sickness. And just as foul.
“She’s fine, but you should take her home. And do the cooking and ensure she rests,” her mama said sternly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Marcus said smartly, putting a protective arm around his now decidedly less-green wife.
The three made their way into the house, Laura curled around her belly, Marcus gazing down upon her—almost the exact scene Catarina had imagined when Laura had asked her to attend the birth. Her mother’s focus was entirely on Laura and the door shut firmly behind them, leaving Catarina alone in the night with a puddle of sick at her feet and a canker in her heart.
And as proof the saints didn’t answer all prayers, who should come around the corner of the barn just then but one Mr. Jace Merrill.
Chapter Eight
Would she never be at her best when facing this man?
Tonight Catarina had looked her finest, had been her most sparkling and radiant, but now, now, when she was next to a puddle of sick for the love of Heaven, he had finally chosen to notice her.
Perhaps she should simply turn, head for the barn, and find a quiet corner to hide in for the rest of the night. Or go home to wash her hair.
And her dress as well. Her nose wrinkled at the smell coming from at her feet.
Jace kept on toward her, bearing down like a mountain lion after a lone steer. Goosebumps prickled on her skin at his intent stare, his delicious stalking of her.
Inwardly shaking off those thrilling shivers, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Retreat was the tactic of cowards. And Catarina Moreno was no coward when it came to handsome men. She’d wanted his attention; well, now she had it. And she’d keep it, pool of sick or not.
In fact, if she could hold his attention, he might not notice what was at her feet. If she moved away ever so slowly…
He paused within arm’s length of her and sniffed the air. Before she could blink, he was at her side, neatly avoiding the mess, his large hand lightly settling on her forearm.
“Are you all right, Catarina? Are you ill?” His voice vibrated with worry while the moonlight illuminated the concern bracketing his eyes. Oh dear, there went that shiver again. Deeper, warmer than before.
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” she said with a careless wave, stepping back to distance herself from the mess. “My friend—the one who’s expecting a baby—she wasn’t feeling well.”
“Is she all right now?”
“Yes. Marcus came to take her home.”
“Marcus is her husband, I assume?” Laughter bubbled underneath the question.
“Oh, yes, I forget you don’t know everyone here yet. Marcus Gries. Marcus and Laura Gries. He’s a farmer, you know.” Why was she babbling like an idiot?
“Well, if you’re all right, let’s move away from here,” he said, steering her toward Mrs. Whitman’s rose arbor. A dark, secluded place that could hide two people from the prying eyes of the barn dance attendees.
Faint warnings began to sound in her head. If she were caught with him, there would be the very devil to pay. A couple couldn’t claim innocent intentions if they were found together in the rose arbor. For all her experience, she knew how far to go and no further.
This was a little too far.
His strong grip never loosened on her elbow as he steered her to a wooden bench, roses climbing wildly up and around her head, the scent almost too thick to bear. She must look like Medusa, but with rose stems standing in for snakes.
As he released her, she told herself it was time to announce she was quite all right and head back to the dance. She commanded her legs to move, to run to safety, but the traitorous limbs refused to heed her.
He didn’t sit, but loomed over her, his big body blocking out the starry sky until all she could see was the darkness that was him. The darkness blocking any hope of her escape.
The roses at her back and the bulk of him before her formed a sheltered spot quite like her place under the pepper tree. A languidness fell over her, a pleasurable lethargy keeping her right where she was. She had his full attention, and she was basking in it, like a cat in the sun.
This was very different than their encounter by the creek. She didn’t want to take his hand—she wanted to use every bit of her wiles to seize all of him.
She didn’t want to wear the mask of the flirt for him; she wanted to be the flirt with him.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Señor?” She kept her voice low and husky. “You certainly attracted quite a bit of attention from the ladies here.” There—now that she’d said it so casually, he’d never guess at the irritation it caused her.
“No more attention than you yourself got from the men.” So he had noticed. “You were watching me, hmm? I got the impression you didn’t care.”
“Where would you get an idea like that?” She kept her tone as falsely casual as his had been. “You seemed to be ignoring me as hard as you possibly could.”
He smiled at that, the white flash of his teeth an echo of the moon’s glow behind him. “Now why would I ignore a lady who was obviously trying so hard to get my attention? Especially when she’s the prettiest woman in Cabrillo.”
She seized on the compliment, while ignoring the suggestion she’d appeared desp
erate. “If that’s true, why didn’t you ask me to dance?”
“How was I supposed to make my way through all those beaux you had by your side? I’d have needed a stick to fend off all those men.”
As if it were her fault she was so popular. “So you passed the time by dancing with every other woman in town. I see.”
His head lowered to hers. “Darlin’, I don’t think you do.” His voice was a velvet growl, softer than the evening air. “If I so much as glanced sideways at you, your pa would be on me like a coyote on a chicken. But I got you out here, didn’t I?”
She gave him her slow, sidelong look, her very bones vibrating with anticipation. “Only to ask for your handkerchief back, correct?” she dared him.
“I don’t want the damn handkerchief. But you wanted my attention.” He spread those large hands wide. “You got it.”
He admitted that she’d won the field, and in doing so scored a victory for himself. Such gestures weren’t in the rules of the game—she set the rules and the men followed. She was in fast-rising water with this man, but having his attention was a thrill too heady to relinquish.
“And what should I do with it, now that I have it?” she asked breathily.
“Well, a man does like a compliment now and then.” His smile gleamed again.
“Oh, I don’t need to tell a man like yourself just how strong and handsome you are. Or didn’t Margaret and Lily and Agnes tell you that already?” She pushed her inflection toward playful, to remind him that she would set the tone. “No, I suppose those silly girls botched the whole thing. Thankfully, I’m quite accomplished.” She took in the outline of his well-shaped head, the broad lines of his labor-hewn shoulders, his lean hips sliding into long, strong legs.
There was so much to compliment on this man; too much, really. An abundance of masculine riches.
I want more.
“Shall I tell you I’d love to run my fingers through your hair, to test if it’s as thick and soft as it appears? Would that do for a compliment?” She’d never in her life been so forward, so bold with a man. The kisses she’d stolen had been silly, giggling affairs, no more serious than a wink across a room.
“I think that’d do just fine.” His head dipped a fraction closer to hers, his voice lowering to a rough whisper. “And that could be arranged, if you’d like.”
Slowly, she threaded her fingers in his thick hair. Amazingly, it was even softer than it looked. She stroked gently, the strands entangling her fingers as if reluctant to release her, her fingernails lightly raking his scalp, in thrall to the moment and her own boldness at touching a man in this way.
In the silence of the rose garden, his breaths grew deeper and slower, her own breathing slowing in response, matching his. His head dipped, allowing her access to the warm, smooth skin of the back of his neck. As she caressed this new frontier, his head moved lower, as if compelled by her touch to crowd closer to her lips.
With one last dip he was there, his mouth brushing hers, his mustache tickling her upper lip. His lips were smooth, warm and firm—very different from the bristly mustache above them. The contrast sent those delicious shivers running up and down her spine.
But it wasn’t enough.
I want more.
She pulled him closer—bidding him with her caressing hands to give her what she wanted, knowing instinctively there was more.
He obliged.
His lips parted and claimed hers, drinking her up as if she were an oasis in the Mojave. The warm caress of his tongue glided across her lips, as if he were requesting permission to enter. She couldn’t refuse him, not when he’d asked so nicely.
Before she knew it, he had claimed every inch of her mouth, her head spinning with the fierceness of the kiss they were sharing. There was nothing hesitant or boyish about it, no fear of offense in the deep, slow thrust and retreat of his tongue. No, this was the kiss of a man, a man who knew exactly what she was offering, exactly what he wanted, and he was taking it. She kissed him back, matching him measure for measure, taking when he gave, giving when he demanded.
He tasted of something smoky and sharp all at the same time—whiskey, no doubt. His scent surrounded her, the clean smell of afternoon sunshine. Her fingers kept stroking his hair and nape, running from the soft thickness of his hair all the way to the corded strength of his shoulders before racing back up to complete the trip all over again.
Greed got the better of her, her blood thrumming dangerously as she crowded ever closer to his body, grabbing a fistful of his shirt to steady herself. His arms came around her, half pulling her off the bench to give him better access. Still, she wanted more. If only there were some way she could simply crawl inside him…
The boisterous sounds of liquor-soaked men brought her crashing down from where she had been flying. Jace flew backwards as if burned, Catarina’s rear hitting the bench with a hard thump. As flushed as she felt, it was entirely possible she had singed him.
They breathed together harshly in the dark, the scent of roses thick around them, trying to avoid the notice of the men.
If they were noticed… they were too far out of the bounds of propriety here to disguise their encounter as anything innocuous.
“Who was that greaser with the badge?”
The sneered words hit like a dash of cold dishwater, her muscles clenching at the shock.
That voice… Catarina frowned as she tried to place the owner. She didn’t know that voice. It was certainly someone who hated her people, since he’d used that word.
“Oh, Joaquin? He’s always dogging us.” That was Billy Carey.
Her limbs tightened, her breath escaping in a rush as her breast throbbed.
Jace’s hand reached for hers, clasping it firmly.
“I don’t like the way he looked at us. Greaser ought not to think himself above a white man.” The stranger’s voice again. It must have been the man who’d accompanied the Carey boys back to Cabrillo.
Their footsteps moved away, fading into the darkness.
She held herself stiff and silent, listening with all her might. Slowly, creepingly, the darkness transformed, until there was only silence and themselves contained within it once more.
She returned her attention to the man before her.
“I hope that… compliment met your expectations, Señor.” As if their game had never been so horridly interrupted.
He squeezed her hand before throwing back his head and laughing.
“You know, I had a filly like you once. She was the sassiest thing I’d ever come across. She liked to buck every now and then to keep me on my toes, but she’d always wink at me after to let me know she was only fooling.”
She pulled her hand from his. “How flattering, to be compared to a horse.”
He snorted. “Don’t try that with me; you know exactly how pretty you are. You don’t need me to be buttering you up. You’ve got a whole town of willing men for that.”
“I’m not the one who was begging for a compliment,” she said tartly.
“Weren’t you?” His tone grew somber. “Were you all right, just now? You seemed… unsettled.”
“I’m perfectly fine.” Billy was nothing but an annoyance. And the stranger, using that word… well, it was only a word.
He braced one arm on the arbor above her head, sealing the two of them into a closer intimacy. Several solemn moments passed, and she wasn’t inclined to dissolve them by breaking into their game again.
“I’m going to buy the Schuyler place.”
Something strange came over her at his words. Relief? Regret? Ambivalence? Unsettling only began to describe the sensation.
“Congratulations,” she said, holding her voice hard to steady it. “I suppose you’ll be leaving the Rancho then.”
“You want to get rid of me so soon?” he asked, a thread within his voice tugging at the lightness of the question. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t be going anywhere for a while. There’s a lot to repair before it’s read
y for people or cattle.”
“You’ll need funds, too.” A nasty thought struck her. “How did you get the money for all this?”
“Oh, I know your pa’s tight fisted when it comes to wages,” he remarked. He ignored her indignant huff. “I won most of it.”
“Won it? You mean you’re a gambler?” Playing at seduction was one thing; playing with money was quite another.
“Don’t tell me you’re part of the Women’s Anti-Gambling League? Since Isabel decided to outlaw drinking, you’ll go after the gambling?”
“No,” she said, “but Papa says gambling is a dishonest way to earn money.”
“It’s as honest as any ranch work, since it takes skill and aptitude to succeed, not just luck. Simply because a man doesn’t break a sweat doesn’t mean he’s not working hard.”
“Hmpf,” she snorted. What he said made sense, but a niggling prickle insisted he should be ashamed. After all, if he’d won it, some other poor soul had lost it.
He laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Let’s not fight over this, Cat.” His voice was a rasp against her ear. “You and I are meant for loving, not fighting. Can we simply enjoy our time together, here in the roses and the moonlight?”
She’d never had been called Cat before, but she liked it. It made her think of being petted. Thoroughly petted.
“Very well. Congratulations on your ranch and welcome to Cabrillo.” Done as she might congratulate any of her other neighbors upon some particularly fine acquisition. Although he would never be simply another neighbor to her, not after their encounters in the dark.
He dipped his head in acknowledgement, the perfect gentleman again. “Thank you, Señorita.”
Silence fell for the space of several heartbeats. He’d wanted more, and now he would have it. Odd that his achievement of the dream they both shared failed to prick her envy. Resignation was what had settled in her chest—perhaps she’d begun on the path toward acceptance of her eventual spinsterhood.
“What about you?” he asked. “How come none of these boys are jumping at the chance to settle down with you?”
“I don’t know.” But she did know. The confidences this man and the dark inspired her to spill didn’t quite extend to maligning her parents. “I’m comely, I can cook, I keep a well-run house, I have a hundred head of cattle promised to me at my wedding…” She put on an airy tone, as if the entire business amused her. “It’s a mystery to me.”
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