Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  Her eyes narrowed as she took in the front yard. Mustard weed as far as she could see, needing to be expunged and showing no signs of beginning its fall die off. If the Devil himself could have designed the perfect weed, it would have been mustard.

  The porch steps creaked beneath their feet, but held. He pushed open the door, his hand still clasped in hers, and led her inside to what would be their home.

  A thick layer of dust and dead insects was spread over the entire house, cobwebs strung from one corner to the next. A huge black widow scuttled away at their approach, the red hourglass on its gleaming abdomen flashing a warning at them. Mouse droppings littered every flat surface. Likely there were several snakes in residence under the house, taking advantage of the plentiful rodents. The air was stale and still, settling heavily in her lungs.

  But it didn’t appear as if anything larger than mice were here, although there was no telling what she’d find when she opened the cupboards. Once the place was properly cleaned and the boards off the windows to let light and air in, it would be a cozy little house.

  A cozy little home.

  Home.

  This was going to be her home. He was going to be her husband.

  Her lungs went to jelly. In less than a month, she’d leave her family, the rancho—and come here.

  They both stood in the middle of the main room, taking in the house that would be theirs. She had no desire to break the spell between them, finding there was nothing to say in this moment. He must have felt the same, for he only held her hand tightly, with a solemn cast to his face that she suspected mirrored her own.

  This would be her living room.

  A few chairs there—a sofa would be too great an expense at first—a side table or two to hold her curios, and a cabinet for the finer dishes she wanted to display; yes, she could do this room up very nicely.

  Stepping slowly, hesitantly, he led her to the far wall, where the kitchen sink, cabinets, and stove had been set up.

  This would be her kitchen.

  No more daydreaming in her mother’s kitchen for her. Her lips twitched into a small smile.

  At the sink, he worked the rusting pump handle with his free hand. It gave an ear-splitting shriek of metal on metal, but after a few pumps spewed out some brown, cloudy liquid. “Need to clean that out,” he said quietly. It seemed a house this neglected wouldn’t tolerate anything louder than a whisper.

  She gestured toward the closed doors on the other side of the main room. “There are two bedrooms there,” she said, softly enough to burrow beneath the intimate weight between them, “and a water closet attached to the bigger one.” She recalled the first time she’d been in the house, a few years ago. It had looked so different then, furnished with the trappings of a young family rather than only dust and cobwebs.

  “One for us and one for the children,” he said. Rather as if he were looking forward to filling those rooms.

  Their children.

  She told herself firmly not to blush, but the heat rose in her cheeks anyway. It wouldn’t do to let him know how eagerly she, too, was looking forward to children—and the begetting of them. Such eagerness was unladylike.

  “Don’t worry, Señorita,” he said with a wicked glint in his eye. “I’m going kiss you soon, and kiss you as you want, but not here. I don’t want to get bit by whatever’s lurking.” He eyed the corner warily.

  “You’re going to let a little thing like spiders keep you from kissing me, Señor? My charms must be fading.” She batted her eyelashes.

  His growl as he dragged her outside made her laugh, their hands still tightly clasped.

  He headed straight for the donkey cart, his headlong flight only checked when she yelped as one of the numerous gopher holes in the front yard caught at her ankle. Before she could even reach down to rub away the ache, he was hauling her up close to his hard, warm bulk, searching her face worriedly.

  “Are you all right, darlin’?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, her feet dangling above the ground. “We’re going to need some cats. Lots of cats.”

  “Whatever you want,” he said, as he released her, then made off for the cart, her hand tight in his.

  “Don’t you want to hear what else I want for the house?”

  “Nope,” he said, “not now. We have some kissing to get to.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “If you turn off here,” Catarina said sometime later, all innocence, “there’s a sandy bank along the creek that’s pleasant for sitting and watching the water go by. If you’d like to, that is.”

  Before she finished, he’d turned off the road.

  As they passed through the tall buckwheat lining the trail, she smiled at the sight greeting them on the other side. A field of golden-orange poppies waved at them in the late afternoon breeze, an endless carpet of brightness to warm her soul. She reached a hand out of the cart to brush along the flowers in greeting, the softness of the petals welcoming her in return.

  When they arrived at the creek bank, protected from the road by a thicket of overgrown cottonwoods, one brave male quail poked his head out. He peered this way, then that, searching for any danger, the little black question mark upon his head bobbing with each movement. After a few moments, he raced to another clump of brush, his little harem of females following closely behind. Their distinctive ha-HA-ha came from deep within the brush as they called to one another.

  Jace pulled the donkey to a stop, then swept her out of the cart.

  “Wait,” she cried, giggling breathlessly, “you can’t just set the brake—you need to hobble that donkey, or he’ll run off and we’ll be stuck here.”

  “Goddamn that donkey,” he grumbled, dropping her into the soft sand and marching back to the offending animal.

  “There,” he said, stalking back to her. “Are you happy now?”

  Happy? No, the intent lines of him as he bore down on her didn’t make her happy. Happy wasn’t the hot shivers racing along her skin, quivering into open flames.

  Before she could turn to ash, his arms were around her and his mouth was on hers, but not like before. No, this time he was slow, almost tentative, as if he was unsure how to kiss a fiancée instead of a dripping wet girl on a summer’s day.

  His mouth coaxed hers open, with a teasing promise of more to come if she allowed him in.

  I want more.

  Around her waist, his arms held her loosely—tight enough to keep her from falling, but not allowing the full length of him to come against her. The kiss was so different from the ones they’d shared at the dance or by the water trough; she marveled at how many varieties they came in. If she had to give this kind of kiss a name, it would be a wooing kind. A kiss that asked, instead of took. A kiss that was open, instead of furtive. A kiss that was slow, instead of stolen.

  She loved them all, but this was her favorite so far.

  She sagged a little more in his arms, hoping he would gather her close so she could feel him, his hard chest against her aching breasts, his hips against the desire pooling in her lower belly.

  Instead of taking her hint, he moved a hand slowly up her back, his fingers tangling in and destroying her upswept hair in order to capture her more firmly under his mouth. He skillfully played a naughty game of give and take with only her mouth, while denying the rest of her the relief of his touch.

  Two could play at that game.

  She’d get what she wanted by driving him wild with kisses. She looped her arms around his neck and tilted her head up, her tongue tangling with his as she kissed him back with all the fire he was building within her. Driven by a wicked impulse, she began to lightly suck on his tongue.

  When he groaned and moved his legs between hers, his entire body flush against hers and desire hardening in him, she knew she had him.

  He drew her against him, breaking off their kiss to trail his mouth along her neck, a shiver running through her at that wickedly ticklish mustache of his. With his lips dancing along her neck, h
e used his free hand to pull her skirts up, his fingers brushing the skin underneath.

  She went still, savoring the feel of his hands on her bare legs, and waited for his surprise when he realized what she’d done. Instead, he pulled back from her.

  “Darlin’, what’s wrong?” He sounded as breathless as she felt.

  Wrong? Couldn’t he see everything was right? “What? Why did you stop?” she demanded.

  “You didn’t seem like you were enjoying yourself anymore.”

  “I was concentrating on what you were going to do next.” She peeped at him through her lashes, lowering her voice. “What were you going to do next?”

  “You keep concentrating and let me show you.”

  He returned to unveiling her legs. He stopped when he touched bare skin, just as she’d hoped.

  “Where are your—your under—” his mouth worked as he searched for the word—“under things?”

  She giggled at his befuddlement. “I left them off. It was too hot.”

  “You weren’t like that in church, were you?”

  Was that really him scolding her about her church attire while he manhandled her in full view of one disapproving donkey? “Leave off my undergarments in church?” she said, scandalized. “I would never do such a thing! I took them off after dinner, while you were hitching up.”

  For all his disapproving words, his fingers continued to trace patterns on her inner thigh, climbing ever closer to where she ached.

  “Oh yes,” she whispered into his ear. “I think I’m going to enjoy being Mrs. Merrill.”

  His fingers stilled. He dropped her skirts and set her away from him.

  For the life of her, she couldn’t see why he’d stopped. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  He turned his face from her, his fingers curling into his palms. “Get back in the cart,” he finally ground out.

  “But why? Why are you stopping?” She’d thrown herself at him like some kind of wanton, and he was pushing her away? A new heat came to her face, that of embarrassment rather than desire.

  “Darlin’, we’ve got years to do what we were about to do. And yes,” he continued at her mulish look, “you’ll enjoy every minute of it, I promise you that. But we’re going to wait until it’s all official.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Until you’re Mrs. Merrill.”

  “Are you turning into a ‘nice boy,’ Jace Merrill?” she asked as she made her way back to the hobbled donkey. “Because if you are, I’m very disappointed. Cabrillo already has enough of those. I should know; I’ve kissed most of them.”

  He didn’t rise to her provocation. “And I know all you’ve done is kiss them, and that’s the way it’s going to stay until after the preacher says the words over us,” he said grimly.

  “Priest,” she corrected.

  “Preacher, priest, whomever. I’m not touching you again until the words are said.”

  She sat with a thump, angry and confused and embarrassed all at once. If she’d known he was going to be such a stick in the mud, she’d have left her undergarments on.

  He started the donkey off, never once glancing at her. She studied the landscape surrounding them. To help burn off her pique before they reached the house, she ignored the man next to her as hard as she could.

  The man who wouldn’t tell her of his family. The man who suddenly decided he had to protect her virtue. The man who might only want those hundred head of cattle.

  The man who was going to become her husband.

  Her lungs went to jelly again.

  Why had he stopped? Did he not want her anymore, now that he had her for forever?

  That evil little voice piped up: Yes, you and your hundred head of cattle. Forever.

  Where the hell had she learned to kiss like that?

  Jace had intended to kiss his future bride and leave it at that. Oh, it would be some fiery kissing, but nothing more.

  He frowned at the donkey’s ears, not daring to peep at Catarina next to him. He already knew she was angry; the steam coming off her was hotter than the sun’s rays.

  When she’d made it clear she wanted more, he’d tried to kiss her right out of her head while keeping that delicious body of hers at arm’s length. He’d known that if she rubbed all those soft curves against him, those fine promises he’d made about waiting would go up in smoke.

  He was merely going to kiss her until she couldn’t see straight, then put her right back in that cart and return her to her father as pure as the day she’d been born. Until they were married, he intended to return her as such from all their Sunday drives. The Morenos didn’t need any more excuses to hate him—and if he guessed right, a truly compromised Catarina would cause quite a ruckus, engagement or no.

  Then she’d started sucking on his tongue.

  He wasn’t one to brag, but he’d been intimate with more than a few ladies in his time. Mostly widows, but also the occasional working girl. He could count on one hand the number of women who’d done what she had.

  Well, one finger, if he was being exact.

  After he’d gone through those mental calculations, he decided it was time to stop thinking and time to start giving his future bride exactly what she wanted. Or rather, his body had decided for him.

  He had to stop letting it do that.

  Then she’d said how much she was looking forward to being Mrs. Merrill.

  He’d been suddenly reminded that he was a liar. And a despoiler of women. And a Bannister.

  He’d had no right to touch her before their engagement, thanks to propriety. And he felt as if he still had no right, thanks to his secret. Perhaps once they’d said the vows, once she was legally his, this guilt would ease.

  Watching her in the house as she took in everything that was going to be hers, he could almost forget how all this came about. She’d have everything she’d ever desired with that house. And he was the one giving it to her. What man wouldn’t feel like a god, giving a woman like that her heart’s dearest wish?

  If only he weren’t a liar and a Bannister, he could have enjoyed the moment entirely.

  If he were a Bannister, he would have taken all that she’d offered and more. And hang the consequences.

  “It was meant to be ours.”

  If the Rancho Alvarado was meant to be the Bannisters’, they’d still have it. Getting caught with a woman in a moment of lust didn’t mean she was meant to be his. It just meant he was stupid.

  And her questions about his family… he hadn’t thought to compose a clever lie beforehand to give her. All those surly noes hadn’t forestalled her curiosity—they’d only upset her.

  He snuck a glance at her. Judging by how stiffly she sat, her arms crossed over her bosom, the lady remained upset.

  But even as put out as she was, the sight of her warmed him. Eased him. Like being indoors on a frozen winter morning, watching the frost glitter from the window, but the cold never once touching him.

  He didn’t think he’d ever truly experienced such a thing—he’d only ever imagined it. He remembered her words: It snows here in the winter. Nothing to do but to stay indoors.

  When he imagined that room, ice sparkling on the grass outside, the cold pressing hard against the window but never penetrating the bubble of warmth inside, there was someone else with him. Someone to come in from the cold for, to enjoy the ease and contentment of each other’s company.

  He had a sudden urge to reach out for her hand, his fingers tingling with it. But her hands were wrapped around her elbows, completely inaccessible to his.

  Instead, he tightened his hands on the reins and ignored the tingling. The sensation would fade soon enough—but the apprehension she inspired in him would linger.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He was surrounded by Alvarados.

  Jace clutched his glass of wine and sank deeper into his corner of the parlor. He took a sip, his mouth twisting at the flavor. He supposed it was good, but he hadn’t drunk wine in well over a decade, preferring beer inste
ad. They could be topping his glass off with vinegar and he’d still smile and pretend to enjoy it.

  Just as he was pretending to enjoy this party.

  On the eve of his wedding.

  People had been streaming into the rancho for days, and judging by the numbers, Catarina must have been related to half the state. Jace had received his fair share of curious looks from them—though none outright hostile—but most were more interested in conversing with long-missed family members than interrogating the man set to join the family tomorrow.

  He took another sip. It wasn’t half bad. His eyelids grew heavy as he surveyed the crowd. He was exhausted, most of his days having been spent in a fury of repairs as he attempted to make the homestead fit for his bride.

  Where was she, anyway? He searched for the glimmer of her dark hair, the bustle of her quick step, the sway of her hips.

  Nothing.

  He hadn’t tried to kiss her since that first drive, and she hadn’t tried to tempt him. It rather hurt his feelings, her lack of effort. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so bear-headed after halting that kiss. But there’d be time enough after tomorrow.

  They spent Sundays at the claim—her in the house fixing things and him out of doors fixing everything else. He supposed that was how their married life would proceed, him working on the ranch and her working indoors, but… he missed her on those Sundays. Missed teasing her, laughing with her. Holding her hand as they imagined their future together.

  He swirled the wine in his glass, watching the fingers of it reach down the sides to rejoin the rest. Perhaps he could sneak away, find a bedroom somewhere, and doze for a bit. Maybe he could slip into Catarina’s room, the linens smelling of her as he rubbed his face into her pillow—