Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  When he’d signed the deed, the pen had hovered over the line as Jace debated with himself.

  Make it legal.

  “Someday, son, all this will be yours.”

  He might not consider himself William Jason Bannister, Jr., any longer, but the law did. So that was the name he’d put down. He had to sew it all up tight, keep his promise to his future son.

  Jace Merrill kept his promises.

  Coming back to the rancho after signing the deed, he’d been triumphant. Elated. Practically walking on his toes.

  She’d come flying out of that trough, cool and sparkling in the heat, mouth wide open on a laugh and he’d—

  Idiot.

  He was in a fine mess now. Fitting, for a man who’d let his finger choose his way here. Although it hadn’t been his finger doing the thinking by that trough.

  His hands clamped hard together until his fingers prickled uncomfortably, protesting the pressure.

  The voices in the office rose in volume and he stared at the solid oak door, as if doing so would let him see inside. Catarina was receiving quite the dressing-down—he didn’t need to know Spanish to understand that.

  What would they do with her? Likely lock her in her room and throw away the key.

  The ball of guilt sitting heavy in his gut grew thorns. It’d be damned hard to see her in town after this, pretending that he wasn’t remembering the feel of her, wet and soft, against him. Wasn’t thinking on home when he saw her. Or mine.

  And what would the Señor do to him?

  Oh, he was fired for sure, but afterward… Dark looks, a word whispered in an ear here or there—bumps thrown into his path, obstacles to stumble around, but nothing overt. Nothing public.

  None of them wanted what had happened here to be exposed. He imagined Catarina walking through town, and hands covering whispered gossip at her approach, backs turning to shut her out. She’d hold her head high—she could do nothing else. His hands would curl impotently at the sight, wanting to reach out and clasp hers.

  No, none of this could get out. The Señor would no doubt use his influence to keep Mr. Obregon quiet, and the rest of them would seal their lips forever.

  The soft click of the doorknob caught his attention. The Señora came out, looking as if… well, as if she’d just learned her daughter had been caught in a compromising position.

  She’d gone past him earlier without a glance, but now she studied him with an intensity that made him want to lean away. A queer, horrified expression crossed her face.

  He’d seen that exact look once before, at a fight. One of the men had been clipped in the jaw, and before he’d gone down, he’d had the same stunned, green-gray wash come over him. The man had known the ground was coming for him fast, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  “What did you say your name was?” Low, harsh. Accusing.

  His heart stopped. She couldn’t know who he was. He’d swear he’d never met the woman before in his life.

  “Merrill,” he said, trepidation making his skin clammy. “Jace Merrill.”

  She stared at him a moment longer, her eyes narrowing, before making a small noise that could have been disbelief. Or perhaps disappointment.

  Without another word, she turned on her heel and slipped away.

  He rubbed at his jaw, trying to push away the chills she’d set off, the stubble there barbed against his fingertips. She couldn’t know. There was no way she knew.

  But what if she did?

  She’s an Alvarado.

  Christ, he was in a mess.

  His companion in that mess came out of the office, as proud and defiant as her mother had been shocked and appalled. She stopped to peer down her nose at him. “My father wishes to see you now,” she said with all the haughtiness of a born queen, flicking her wrist toward the door.

  He wouldn’t be cowed by this imitation of her mother. “Isn’t it a little late to be playing lady of the manor with me?”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re referring to, Señor.” Her sniff was as practiced as the rest of the little performance.

  But her lip quivered, the tiniest of tremors in her stiff mask of pride. He lifted his hand to hers…

  She’s an Alvarado, too.

  He let it fall back to his side.

  “Are you going in or not?” she demanded.

  He stood, curling his fingers into his palm to keep them where they belonged. “I—”

  What could he say? “I’m sorry?” He was only sorry they’d been caught. “Sorry, I’m a Bannister and you’re an Alvarado?” He could never admit such a thing to her.

  “I hope you’re all right.” He could at least admit to that.

  Her gaze flickered, then went hard again. “Save your hope for yourself. I don’t need it.”

  She stomped up the stairs, no doubt to immure herself in her room on her parents’ orders.

  Once in the office, Jace closed the door firmly. He lowered himself into the chair across from the Señor, still warm from Catarina’s body.

  Moments passed as they stared each other down. The Señor’s jaw was set tight, his eyes narrow, but his expression wasn’t quite furious. It was closer to considered anger. As if he’d come to some unwanted decision.

  The Señor smoothed his mustache. “So this is how you get what you wanted.”

  “What I wanted?” As far as he could see, he hadn’t gotten a thing.

  Her kisses. Her breasts. You got those.

  He shook off that voice.

  “This is how you Americans insinuate yourselves,” the Señor went on. “You marry one of our daughters, and then, before anyone knows what has happened, you have the whole rancho in your greedy hands. I’ve seen it happen to too many good families.”

  He knows. This talk of marrying a daughter to gain a rancho—it was the only explanation. His heart kicked into a sprint.

  Jace wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t. “I assure you, I have no desire to snatch up your rancho. Or marry your daughter.” He winced at how that sounded, but went on. “Your daughter has no desire to see me again.”

  “Her desires do not enter into it. Nor do yours, for that matter.”

  “You don’t want me to marry her either.” He rubbed at his forehead in frustration, his palms clammy. “Isn’t that what you just said?”

  “Here is what will happen,” the Señor continued. “You will court my daughter for one month, and at the end of it, you will both be honorably married by a priest.”

  “What?” He’d lost the thread of this somewhere—if he’d ever had it.

  “You heard me,” the older man snapped. “You’ve dishonored her right here on my own land—don’t compound your crime and pretend to be stupid as well. Of course I don’t want her to marry you. But I have no choice. She has no choice. And neither do you. Honor must be satisfied. You cannot compromise my daughter and then think to escape the punishment.”

  “But I’m a—” He bit back the last of that. I’m a Bannister. She’s an Alvarado.

  He peered closely at the Señor—perhaps the man didn’t know. There was anger in those eyes for certain. But not murder.

  “The Black Widow Alvarado murdered your Uncle Tommy.”

  The Señor didn’t know. He couldn’t. Christ, Jace was in more than a mess—he was getting married.

  “I won’t marry her against her will,” he said. “Catarina can’t have agreed to this.”

  “She can, and she did. She knows where her duty to the family lies. Any gentleman would agree as well.”

  Memories of his father telling him what a gentleman couldn’t and mustn’t do stirred darkly. He couldn’t become a cowboy, he mustn’t neglect his studies.

  His father would be viciously pleased to see him in this mess—it would suit his notion of justice.

  No, Jace had to stop this, all without admitting the dark secret of himself. If he didn’t, he and Catarina would find themselves trapped in some farcical retelling of Romeo and Juliet.
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br />   He’d never liked reading Shakespeare.

  “Last I heard,” he drawled, deliberately aiming to offend, “a man can still pick his own wife in this country. What are you going do, march me to the altar with a shotgun at my back?”

  The Señor’s smile was pure malice, as if he’d like nothing better. “If I did, who here would stop me?”

  No one would. Sheriff Obregon, being the Señor’s future son-in-law, would be no help, and everyone else in this town thought too much of Ramon Moreno to cross him. James Harper might stand up for him, but a Bible-toting, church-going man might also think this marriage for the best, considering what had led to it.

  “You begin to see the strength of my position,” Moreno said. “Think what would happen if you refuse me, refuse my daughter. You already have your homestead, so you can’t simply leave.”

  Jace blinked in surprise. The Señor had heard already?

  “News travels fast,” the older man said dryly. “With me against you, what do you think will happen when you try to buy cattle? When you try to buy feed? When you try to hire vaqueros? When you apply for grazing permits in the high country?”

  Each sentence fell like a hammer. The old bastard was right. He could ruin Jace without even breaking a sweat.

  His gut clenched and his fists curled, aching to land a punch right on that sneer of a smile. Jace was trying to save all of them from a terrible mistake, and the Señor was intent on shoving them into it as hard as he could.

  “You can have me as a father-in-law or as an enemy,” Moreno finished. “You decide.”

  He almost called the older man’s bluff. It was the only way he could see out of this.

  But then the image of Catarina, her head low and her eyes red as she’d marched back to the house, came to him. She was hurt. And that made him hurt.

  If he married her, he’d save her from additional hurt.

  I want more.

  He could give her everything she’d dreamed of. Could take for himself everything she offered.

  Home.

  If he married her, his true name must never come out. Having it on the deed was bad enough, a coil of rattler waiting for someone to step in it. That letter he’d dreamed of, the one telling his father of all he’d accomplished, all on his own, without the Bannister name behind him—he’d never send that. If his father knew Jace was here, if he decided to seek his wayward son out, discovered he had married an Alvarado… Judge Bannister was a powerful man in California. He might decide to punish his son and daughter-in-law for their transgressions. And there wouldn’t be a thing Jace could do to stop him.

  Except to forever keep quiet about his true name.

  If Jace married her, he’d be walking a tightrope for the rest of his life, ensuring that she never learned the truth. Because if he fell, he’d smash her in the impact.

  He’d do anything to keep her from hurt.

  “I’ll marry her.” Flat, stark. Containing nothing of how he felt for her.

  At those words, the Señor didn’t look triumphant, as he’d expected, but sad, slumping in his chair.

  “You weren’t what we wanted for her.” Moreno’s voice had lost all of its combativeness. “You’re our worst nightmare come true. All those boys coming to call on her? Every one I said no to. And now she’s marrying you.”

  “Why did you tell all those boys they couldn’t court her?” If they were speaking man to man, Jace could at least ask that.

  The Señor waved that away. “What does that matter now? You’re marrying her and they are not.”

  “Was it about her hundred head of cattle?”

  Moreno started. “How did you know about that?”

  Jace sent him a long, level gaze, the kind he’d used on men who were a little too lucky at the card table. “You weren’t planning on cheating me, were you?”

  “I want more.” If he was going to keep Catarina fed and clothed, he’d need those animals.

  “Oh, no.” The Señor snorted. “You’ll get your cattle. All one hundred head. I wouldn’t dream of trying to cheat an American. But first, you’ll ensure your claim is ready in a month. You’re not getting anything until I know my daughter isn’t living in a hovel. And of course you’ll come to Sunday supper after attending Mass. If the weather’s fine, you can take Catarina for a drive.”

  He tensed at the commands. It all sounded so… gentlemanly. “Shouldn’t I be spending Sundays making the house fit for my future wife?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the older man snapped. “You’re going to spend the next month of Sundays putting on a damn good show of courting my daughter, as we agreed.”

  Jace opened his mouth to argue, then decided against it. He’d gotten his cattle—gotten a wife—and he ought to retreat now, before he got anything more.

  I want more.

  And look at where that had gotten the both of them.

  Chapter Eleven

  If this was what he had to look forward to when he was married, someone ought to shoot him now.

  Jace’s knees ached from kneeling on the church floor, but the priest wasn’t done droning on about—about whatever he was droning on about—so here he had to stay. Throughout the entire Mass, he’d felt like an actor continually missing his cues and scrambling to keep up. Cross yourself now, kneel here, speak… something… there—it was like he’d been spun in circles blindfolded for hours, then told to find his way home.

  Home.

  He snuck a glance at his fiancée kneeling next to him. Catarina’s hands were clasped, her eyes closed and head bowed, silent prayers falling from her lips. He wondered what she might be asking for.

  He knew what he’d asked for: Never let them find out the truth.

  When the Mass ended and everyone filed out, he couldn’t pull a breath of relief—there was still dinner to get through.

  He rode back on Spot, alongside the buggy carrying the ladies, driven by Franny. They all chattered along, their voices threading with the birdcalls coming from the chaparral surrounding them.

  Every so often, Catarina would glance back at him—not her sultry look, though. These glances were a little more possessive. A little more heat behind them.

  If he were lucky, he’d wake to that expression every day for the rest of their married life.

  When they arrived at the rancho, the ladies disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the men together in the parlor—him, the Señor, and Joaquin Obregon. Felipe, that traitor, had abandoned him for Sunday supper with the Obregons.

  He wandered about the parlor, the chairs there so imposing in their fineness he wasn’t inclined to sit. The wallpaper was patterned blue with gold flowers at regular intervals. He studied them for a moment. Poppies, if he had to guess at what they were. Portraits of venerable ancestors hung among the poppies on the wall, while a curio held porcelain figurines—a child holding a rabbit, a lady coyly peeping over her shoulder. Jace had never understood displaying such useless things—all they did was take up space and give nothing in return.

  The Señor and Obregon continued with their back-and-forth, so he went to one of the side tables to flip through the stack of newspapers there.

  His heart seized when his father looked back at him.

  Judge Bannister Decries ‘Greaser Menace’

  He shoved the paper to the bottom of the pile, hiding his actions from the other two men. Just his luck that they would get the Los Angeles papers. He rubbed his fingers together to rid them of the chalky newsprint, but only ended up smearing it worse, the entire pad of his fingers now soot gray. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, then remembered that Catarina still had it.

  The Señora called to them from the doorway, no hint of a smile lightening her features. And if she stared at him a little too hard whenever her gaze happened upon him… well, he wouldn’t think on that. Nothing to be done.

  When they all sat down to eat, there’d been more praying and everyone had crossed themselves, with him playing catch-up yet again.<
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  But the food… He breathed deeply. He could smell the spiciness, interlaced with the savory scent of beef and beans. Golden tortillas, a bowl of salsa bright as a handful of jewels… His mouth watered.

  The Señor began grumbling about something or other—probably the war, based on the number of times he said Manila. Joaquin responded in oily tones, followed by Isabel apparently agreeing in her strident teacher’s voice. The Señor started off again, not noticing or caring that no one else was conversing. Catarina stared down at her plate, Franny stared out the window, and the Señora stared at the Señor.

  “Señor Moreno.” The Señora’s soft voice cut into the old man’s rant. He stopped, obviously taken aback at the interruption in his favorite pastime.

  “Perhaps we should speak English so our guest may understand?” the Señora asked, same as she might ask someone to pass the beans.

  Those were the first words Jace had understood all day.

  The Señor’s mouth snapped shut, as if to say, If I can’t speak Spanish, then I won’t speak at all.

  Fine by him.

  “But Mama,” Franny piped up, “you always said we were never to speak English in the house. That you hated the sound of it.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep a grin from splitting his face. Good old Franny, marching in where angels feared to tread.

  “I think we may make an exception when we have guests,” the Señora said gently.

  That put him in his place, didn’t it? Not Jace, or even Mr. Merrill. A guest.

  “Quite right,” said Obregon. “We wouldn’t want Mr. Merrill to feel left out.”

  He gritted his teeth. A light tap on his hand, hidden beneath the table, brought his gaze up to Catarina. Her color was high.

  A sudden memory of his mother came to him, head bent, cheeks mottled, mouth shut tight as his father droned on. But he couldn’t be certain if it was a true memory, or something his imagination had conjured—given that she’d died when he was six, sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference.

  But he did know that in none of his memories did his mother speak.

  “I am sorry, I didn’t realize,” Catarina was saying, her voice pitched only for him. Her arm brushed his as she leaned into him, and he caught the scent of summer peaches, uniquely hers.