Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  “Mr. Merrill!”

  He blinked at the man in front of him, dressed in black and silver. The light that caught on the silver embroidery and fobs of his suit was nearly blinding. The other men here were rather soberly dressed—some were even a bit threadbare, to be honest, although the Alvarados had been one of the most prosperous families in Mexican California—but this man was dressed as a don of old.

  Quite aggressively so.

  “Don Enrique Jaramillo,” the man announced. “Señora Moreno’s cousin.”

  Jace held out his hand, but the other man ignored it to sketch a bow.

  He cleared his throat. “Uh, Jace Merrill. Miss Catarina’s fiancé.”

  “Such a pleasure to finally meet you.” The Don made it sound as if he’d been hearing of his exploits his entire life. He peered up at Jace. “You look very familiar. Have we met before?”

  Jace felt his face sag, the blood draining from it to leave his cheeks numb. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re from Bakersfield, I hear?”

  “Yes, I spent many years there.” Not a lie, in the strictest sense. His fingers tightened on his glass.

  “Hmm, well, I’ve never been—I live in Los Angeles—so you must remind me of someone else.” He gave an expansive wave of his hand, which Jace had to dodge. “You must come visit my daughters and me in Los Angeles! Promise you will.”

  “Uh, of course.” That was a lie.

  “And who are your people?” The Don craned his neck as he searched the party. Although he wouldn’t find them, tension still gripped Jace’s spine. “I don’t believe I have met them yet.” Don Enrique frowned. “Or even seen them.”

  The lie he’d practiced came easily. “They unfortunately couldn’t attend. Couldn’t get away this time of year.” Jace twisted his mouth ruefully, hoping the angle of it said I wish they could be here and not I’m lying through my teeth.

  “That is too bad.” Don Enrique sounded as if he meant it. “Where exactly are they?”

  “North of here,” Jace said, dragging out North to imply a very long distance.

  The Don patted at Jace’s arm. “No doubt you’ll miss them tomorrow terribly. But we will also be your family, and we will all be there!”

  You wouldn’t say that if you knew who I really was.

  But the Don didn’t see the sour expression Jace could no longer hold back—he was turning to search the parlor once more. “Oh, I see Franny.” He waved to her and she practically bounced as she waved back. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Jace nodded a relieved farewell, grateful he could quit lying to such a hospitable man, and tried to sink back into his corner. But half a step had his back meeting the wall and then there was nowhere else to go. He went back to sipping his wine, trying not to nod off, and watching the crowd.

  Everyone spoke in genteel tones, made very mannered gestures, and strove to give the impression of leisure and indolence. Yet, the effect was off somehow. He didn’t get the impression of languidness. Rather, it all made him think of an empty fist clenched tight, trying to hold on to something that had long since slipped away. Their version of California, he supposed.

  “El Rancho Alvarado!”

  His gaze snapped toward that voice, catching on a wizened lady sitting on a sofa, her glass raised high in tribute.

  She went on in Spanish, a few other ladies chiming in at times. The name Bannister came again and again—the only word he recognized in her speech. He pushed harder against the wall with each recitation, but the wall never yielded.

  He searched again for Catarina, who refused to appear no matter how many times his gaze traveled the room. Where was she?

  There, that was— No, it was only her mother. The Señora was watching the ladies as they chanted on, her expression one of rising horror. Exactly the same one she’d worn when she’d asked his name outside the Señor’s office.

  A flash of scarlet in the corner of his eye—the same color as the cherries she’d once given him—had him reaching out and snaring Catarina’s wrist as she bustled by.

  “I haven’t seen you all night.” He tugged her to him, wishing he could pull her close, close his eyes, and just breathe the scent of peaches. Wanted to forget the Alvarados surrounding him, the lies he’d told to them all—and just hold her.

  Her eyes went wide. “What do you mean? I’ve been in and out of this room a dozen times tonight.”

  He rubbed at her wrist, the skin there shielded from him by the silk of her cuff. “Come sit with me.”

  “I can’t.” She gave a slight tug of her wrist.

  The circle of elderly ladies continued their chant, rising to a crescendo.

  “It’s your party, too,” he said low and tight. “You can sit a spell.”

  Her tugs grew stronger—not enough to pull free, simply asking him to release her. But he wanted a bit of her time for himself, damn it. His irritation rose with each jerk of her wrist against the circle of his fingers.

  “This party isn’t for me,” she said. “It’s for the family. After tomorrow, you’ll have the chance to get your fill of me.”

  He slipped his fingers into hers and squeezed. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  Her gaze slid away, toward the floor. The curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose, the line of her neck—all of it joined to form a portrait of utter loveliness.

  He leaned in, let his whisper catch fire. “Come outside with me.”

  She kept her eyes on the floor, but her breathing hitched. “I don’t know. They might miss me.”

  I miss you.

  God, he hoped his lies to these people would hold, for if they discovered who he truly was… The loss of her would hurt. Hurt worse than the loss of the Rancho Alvarado had.

  He squeezed her hand again. Her eyes met his and his mouth flooded with the taste of cinnamon.

  He dragged her out to the porch, ignoring the calls of her relatives to her as they passed, not slowing until the night air filled his lungs. He led her to the deepest, darkest corner of that porch, the spot where the party became nothing more than a spill of light from a window and murmurs through the walls.

  He set her atop the porch rail, pulled her against him to steady her, and kissed her.

  All the frustration, the longing, the need that had built since he first saw her by that common trough—he put all that into the kiss and then some. She welcomed it with her own need, a hum coming from her throat as she clasped at his arms.

  Their tongues met as their hips connected, her arms clasping him tight. The scent of peaches surrounded him and he pushed forward, bending her back against him. She arched beautifully, all of her rubbing against him, until—

  Until she bobbled, almost tipping off the porch rail.

  He caught her barely in time and set her feet back on the ground, his heart bobbling just as she had. Lord, if she’d fallen…

  “Sorry,” he muttered as he scrubbed a hand across his face, the both of them breathing harshly into the dark.

  “I’m all right,” she said a little breathlessly. Her hands came sliding up his chest, stopping to tweak at his tie. “You look very nice tonight. Very much the gentleman.”

  He took a step away. “I’m no gentleman.”

  I almost let her fall.

  She gave a low laugh, one that curled into his gut and tugged. “No, that was no gentleman’s kiss, was it?”

  She thought this a game of flirtation. She thought him only to be Jace Merrill, a simple cowboy without a home. Without a family.

  He set his jaw against the mad impulse to tell her—his name, his first memories of the Rancho Alvarado, his childhood, his escape to the Circle T.

  What would she do with such an admission? She was an Alvarado, surrounded by her kin.

  He was one lone man.

  He wanted her to choose him, even as he knew she wouldn’t. That rash moment by the water trough might have made her his, but it wasn’t by choice.

  His fingers curled into his pa
lms, then uncurled. He didn’t have to tell her all, but perhaps he could—

  “Catarina!” Her mother’s voice bugled from inside the house.

  She sighed and brushed past him. “And back once more.”

  He snared her wrist again, slipping his fingers under the cuff to feel the warm leap of her pulse. He pressed there, not hard. Only a request.

  She paused long enough for him to begin to believe she might grant it. Then she pulled herself free.

  “I’ll make certain no one comes out to bother you,” she said as she disappeared back into the house.

  I want you to come find me.

  But she wouldn’t. She had her duties to her family tonight.

  Let her be an Alvarado tonight.

  Tomorrow, she would be all his.

  Tomorrow was her wedding day.

  Catarina had waited so long, she’d almost given up hope it would actually arrive. But in the morning, she would be joined for life with Jace Merrill.

  Jace.

  He was going to be her husband. She’d be Mrs. Jace Merrill.

  “Mrs. Merrill.” She spoke the name aloud to her bedroom, testing it in her mouth. It felt foreign—the flat r’s and l’s so different from her family name. She tried it again, reminding herself there was nothing to be done but to become accustomed to it.

  Mrs. Merrill.

  Mrs. Merrill would have a house of her own. Señorita Moreno didn’t have that.

  Mrs. Merrill could try whatever recipe came into her head. Señorita Moreno could only prepare food exactly as her mother wished, never deviating from recipes that had been handed down over the years.

  Mrs. Merrill would have children of her own. Señorita Moreno would always be a child.

  She headed for the chest at the foot of her bed. The lid came up easily, the well-oiled hinges silent. As always, she took stock of the items within, items she’d begun gathering at eighteen, when she’d believed her marriage was just around the corner.

  On top were the two pillows she’d sewn and stuffed with goose down when she was nineteen. Then came the linens and the quilt she’d stitched at twenty, followed by a tablecloth she’d embroidered when she was twenty-one. She gently lifted out the kitchen towels, protectively wrapped around the dishes and flatware her cousins from Los Angeles had given her one Christmas. Beneath all these things she’d made for her own house, for a house she’d become less and less sure of as the years went by, beneath all that came the most important items of all.

  They were nestled against the soft green lining at the very bottom, well sealed in canning jars, slumbering until the day she would put them into the soil. These were her pride and joy.

  Her seeds.

  Carefully collected over the years, they represented every variety of plant in her garden. Tomatoes, peppers, chiles—she’d begged seeds from anyone she could, tested them, and saved the best for next season.

  She picked up a jar, holding it to the lamplight. These seeds she’d gotten from Mrs. Crivelli, which produced the thin, delicate green beans she loved. Setting the jar back, she held up another. These, from a passing family, become fat, purple tomatoes.

  All these seeds would start her new garden, in her new house, with her new husband, in her new life.

  In her imaginings, her husband had always been a lovesick young man, swooning over her charm and beauty, a man respected by the town and her family.

  He wouldn’t have skulked in the corner as Jace had tonight. He wouldn’t have announced himself not a gentleman when she complimented him on his clothes. He wouldn’t have refused to speak of his family.

  He wouldn’t only be marrying her for one hundred head of cattle.

  When she was alone, she could almost convince herself that it was true—that all he wanted out of this was a herd. But when he clasped her wrist, held her hand, kissed her as if she were cool water on a hot day… then the notion it was only greed between them tasted false.

  After tomorrow, she’d have a lifetime to find out the truth.

  A soft knock at her door startled her out of her reverie, and she quickly began stuffing things back in, not wanting to be caught mooning over her hope chest.

  “Catarina?” Her mother’s voice was soft, but carried easily through the door.

  “I’m coming, Mama.”

  Her mother was as uncreased as she’d been at the beginning of this evening, in spite of the late hour. She closed the door silently, then fixed Catarina with that stare of hers. “I wished to speak with you before the wedding tomorrow.”

  Oh dear. Her mother was going to speak with her about that thing married couples did. She’d giggled with Laura over her retelling of Mrs. Kemper’s advice on the eve of Laura’s wedding, but having her mother stare like that… Giggling was the last thing on her mind.

  “Mama, if you’re here about the wedding night—”

  The Señora gave a sharp shake of her head. “You grew up on a rancho. I shouldn’t have to explain such things to you.” Her mother’s hands began to twist together, and Catarina was reminded of her unnatural distress after the water trough incident.

  “I could not bear it if he were like that other.”

  Catarina hadn’t dared to speculate further on what her mother had meant. Jace’s behavior had given her enough to worry over. She didn’t need her mother’s worry as well.

  “You do not have to marry him.” Her mother’s words burned with fever. “It is not too late.”

  Too late? The house was stuffed to the rafters with family, the flowers were arranged in the church, the dress was hanging in her wardrobe… How was it not too late? And there remained the small matter of her reputation, dented as it was by her scandalous lapse.

  “But I do.” She realized as she said it, it wasn’t all requirement on her part. There was want as well.

  “You don’t know, my daughter,” her mother said. “You’re so young. You don’t know what men are capable of.” The weight of the sadness behind her mother’s words seemed to be more than a lifetime’s worth.

  She very gently laid her hand on her mother’s arm and looked into the dark eyes so very like her own. Odd to be playing the comforter to her mother, as if she were the adult. After tomorrow, she’d take on all her mother’s roles—in her own house.

  “Mama, I want to marry him.”

  God help her, she spoke the truth. She wanted to marry this man, Jace Merrill. A man who laughed with her and teased her, who listened as she told him of her secret dreams, who told her about his own secret dreams.

  A man who kissed her like no man had before and awoke in her sensations she’d never known existed.

  She didn’t know what he wanted more, her or those hundred head of cattle, but she did know she wanted him.

  Her mother searched her face, but Catarina held her gaze without flinching. She had nothing to hide.

  “Did you ever wonder,” her mother asked levelly, “why I go by Señora Moreno instead of Señora Alvarado?”

  “Because it’s the American fashion?” Even as Catarina said it, she knew that wasn’t the reason. Her mother never did anything in the American fashion. Except for that.

  And she’d never once pondered her mother’s choice of names. Thinking on it even now was unsettling, as if she were somehow defying her mother by doing so.

  “I changed my name when I was very young to hide from someone. And when I married your father, I took his name as my married one. To keep hiding.”

  “Who were you hiding from?” But she could guess—that other who had her mother trembling with fear in her father’s office.

  “The brother of my first husband.” Her words were even, steady—but not her hands, which clenched in her skirts.

  Catarina felt as if her mother had clouted her on the head with those words, scattering her every thought. And when her thoughts returned, reassembled into coherency once more, a terrible possibility appeared.

  Maria Dolores Alvarado Jaramillo de Moreno.

  “You’
re Sweet Little Lola,” she breathed.

  Her mother’s eyelids fluttered closed, her fists continuing to grasp at nothing. “Yes.”

  Catarina’s mouth opened on a silent gasp. When her aunties had been telling that terrible story—the one they’d told tonight!—the one of Sweet Little Lola and her husband’s violent end, simple little Catarina had always thought they’d been looking at nothing when they’d said “And look at her now.”

  But they had been looking at Sweet Little Lola. They’d been looking at her mother.

  The Alvarado heiress, widow, and murderess—all in one.

  Her mother’s eyes opened, as hard and sharp as twin chips of obsidian. “I know you know the story. The aunties have spoken of it too often for you not to. I won’t repeat it and after this, we will never speak of it again. But I tell you now so that you know what a marriage might be. What a man might be, when he is a monster.”

  A monster. Her mother had no need to embroider that. The horror in the aunties’ voices as they pronounced him “Cruel, so cruel” was more than enough. More than she’d ever wanted to know.

  “This… this is why we couldn’t marry Americans.” Catarina never would have dared such a statement before, but the world was on its ear and her with it.

  “Don’t look at me like that, as if I were unnatural to forbid it.” The Señora’s words were as cold as her gaze. “Did you want to find yourself married to a man who wasn’t one of us? Who thought you lesser than he? Who’d break your jaw if he caught you speaking Spanish?”

  Catarina’s knees wanted to give way, could not possibly carry the weight of such things happening to her mother. Yet somehow, they held. “Jace is not like that. He…”

  He only wants those hundred head of cattle.

  She shook that thought away and focused on the feel of his fingers in hers, his lips summoning desire from hers. He’d held her hand in the dark by the creek and shared his dreams with her. Such a man wouldn’t do the things her mother spoke of.

  I want more. Both of them did. And they would have more, together.

  She had to believe that on the eve of her wedding. She had to.

  “You don’t know what he is like,” her mother was saying. “You don’t know him at all.”