Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  “I know he’s not a Bannister.” She didn’t know who he really was, what his people were like, but she was certain of that. Everyone knew the Bannisters hated her people, wished to rid California of them. If Jace believed such things, he never would have taken a job on the Rancho.

  Or touched her as he had.

  “No, he’s not,” her mother said. “And I give thanks to Our Lady for small mercies. But promise me this: If you ever wish to come home to us, for any reason, swear you will.”

  “Leave my husband?” How could her mother suggest such a thing?

  “Yes.” Her mother’s voice was firm. “For any reason. Do not hesitate. Simply come home to us.” She took a shaky breath. “I tried to escape him, once. My mother” —a hitch there—“she sent me back. I had to remain. For the family. For the rancho.”

  And yet, the rancho had been lost in the end. What terrors had her mother suffered in vain to keep it? Unease slithered through Catarina’s belly. “I promise, Mama.”

  She prayed she’d never have to keep that promise.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Today was her wedding day.

  Catarina’s sisters were bustling around the room, helping her to dress and style her hair. In spite of the buzz about her, she felt oddly quiet and removed. Almost as if she were floating above the room, instead of standing in front of the mirror as her mother carefully removed the wedding gown from the closet.

  Her mother. Whose first marriage had been violent and—

  No. No, she wouldn’t think on that. Otherwise she might be sick all over her new stockings. She’d been up most of the night, thinking on that old story.

  “He was cruel, so cruel.”

  Jace wasn’t cruel.

  He only wants those one hundred head.

  She’d thought this a new California, one where the insults of the Americans against her people were safely in the past. She never realized that the biggest insult of all was against her own mother.

  “Sweet Little Lola was forced to murder him.”

  “Catarina?”

  She looked down to see her mother and Isabel holding open the dress, waiting for her. A black hole gaped in the dress where she was supposed to step into. There was no bottom—she couldn’t step into that unknown. Her feet would simply disappear into the blackness—it might swallow up all the rest of her. She silently willed the floor to appear in the dress’s opening.

  “Catarina? Is something wrong?” her mother asked. Both she and Isabel were staring intently at her.

  There was still time to stop this, to tell them to put the dress back, to send all the guests home. If she never stepped into that dress, she could remain here, safe, secure.

  “He was cruel, so cruel.”

  If she never stepped into that dress, her life would never change.

  I want more.

  She shook her head to clear it. “No. No, Mama, I’m fine.” She clasped the shoulders of her mother and her sister, and with their help, stepped in, her toes disappearing into the black. She wriggled them to be certain they were still at the end of her foot. As her mother and sister raised the bodice, her arms were enclosed by the sleeves. They began the long process of buttoning the dozens of pearl seed buttons running up the back, and her fingers ached in remembrance of all those buttonholes she’d sewn.

  Once she was buttoned in, the dress was not coming off. She closed her eyes to stop the room from spinning.

  When she opened them again, her mother and Isabel were stepping back to admire their handiwork in the mirror. Her mother’s smile was strained, while Isabel’s lip curled as if she’d been sucking on a lemon.

  “Well, what do you think?” Her mother’s question forced her to take her first real view of herself in her finery.

  The girl who stared back at her was pale and wide eyed. No blush on that bride.

  “You look like a buckwheat blossom,” Franny said reverently.

  She had to laugh at that. Her sister might be artless, but she always spoke the truth. Her dress was that gentle shade just between white and ivory, trimmed with the same splashes of coral gracing the buckwheat blossoms. An inset of hand-worked lace veiled her from neck to bosom, and the satin covering the rest of her had a muted sheen. As her chest rose and fell, the dress rustled ever so gently, as if attuned to her very breath.

  She had to admit she’d never looked lovelier, but there was little joy in the thought. Even her vanity was flattened under the consuming agitation fighting to break free.

  Her mother came with the veil and mantilla she’d worn to her own wedding almost thirty years ago. Her second wedding.

  Catarina bent her head as her mother solemnly put it in place, carefully adjusting the veil so it lay just so. Her mother slipped a sachet of orange blossoms into a pocket sewn into the hem, then tucked a green and white sprig of the same blossoms into her mantilla. One of the relatives must have brought them along—citrus wouldn’t survive a winter here. The scent was so rich, so sweet, her nose tingled with it.

  “There,” her mother announced. “All ready.” Her voice was steady, as if she’d never admitted the things she had last night. As if they’d never happened to her.

  A soft knock had them all turning toward the door.

  “May I come in?” Juan’s muffled voice called.

  “Of course,” Catarina answered.

  Her little brother was stiff in his Sunday best as he slid into the room. “You look beautiful,” he said gruffly.

  “Thank you,” she said solemnly. She wished she’d had the chance to speak with him privately before the wedding, to explain herself and ease the worry clinging to the corners of his mouth. But there was only time for this stiff exchange, with everyone watching.

  A rather thick silence fell.

  “Are we going to a wedding or a funeral?” Franny put in. She wore her mulish face. “Jace is a fine cow hand, has a beautiful horse, and he’ll build a prosperous ranch. Catarina’s lucky to be marrying him.”

  Catarina let her sister’s assurance wash over her, bolster her failing nerve. Franny was right. Jace would be an excellent rancher. She would be an accomplished wife. All that was necessary for a successful marriage.

  She raised her chin, squared her shoulders. “Of course.” She swept them all with an imperious glance, stopping at her mother. “Everything will be perfectly all right.”

  Her mother’s lips compressed briefly. “If you’re ready.”

  “I am.”

  Well, that was over and done with.

  Jace and his bride sat stiffly in the Morenos’ buggy, Spot pulling them along sullenly—he in his new suit and she in her “going away” dress.

  His gaze ran over his new wife yet again. He sure would have liked to peel that wedding dress off her, but this one would do fine. She’d taken off that silly headdress and was wearing a dark blue straw hat the same color of her dress. Thanks to that hat, he caught only glimpses of her pert little nose as she swayed with the buggy’s movement. By the way she was gripping the seat, her eyes must have been wide open and fixed straight ahead.

  Sharing a bed tonight would be a trial if she held on to her stiffness. He’d no experience with soothing a lady’s strung-up nerves in order to lead her into intimacy. Of course, the ladies he’d bedded before hadn’t been virgins. Or his wife.

  Jace had arrived at the little chapel this morning, fitted out in his suit bought for the occasion. The dull throb that had occupied his head last night after she’d left him on the porch echoed as he’d looked over the pews.

  The entire town of Cabrillo had turned out to see this wedding, although he’d expected that, seeing as how it had come about. To his surprise, some of the townsfolk were sitting on the groom’s side—and not simply because the bride’s side was full. The entire Harper family was there, and he was grateful for the show of support.

  Best of all, Felipe sat not next to the family who had taken him in at fifteen, nor next to the Alvarados who were his peers, but rather
on Jace’s side of the church.

  “Glad you made it,” Felipe said with his usual grin.

  “Glad to see you, too,” he replied.

  “Bit lonely on this side. Thought I’d try to fill it up.”

  “Thanks.” In all the years he’d been there, Jace hadn’t met a single man on the Circle T who’d have done what Felipe just had. His throat began to close, and he willed himself to be lighthearted. “You didn’t have to do that, though.”

  “No, but I did anyway.”

  He clasped Felipe’s shoulder for a moment, before stepping forward to stand next to the priest and await his bride. He caught James Harper’s gaze and exchanged a nod of acknowledgement.

  Then Catarina had appeared, her solemn father guiding her down the aisle.

  The only word he could summon in that moment had been the same one as when he’d first seen her:

  Goddamn.

  She’d been as pretty as a summer flower in her ivory and pink dress, and he’d found himself unable to take his eyes off her during the entire ceremony. Thank God he’d had something to concentrate on because, once again, he couldn’t understand a word, relying on the priest’s few cues addressed to him in English to stumble through.

  His fingers itched to flip up that veil so he could see her face as she promised herself to him for a lifetime. He could make out the dark of her eyes, the bump of her nose, the bow of her mouth, but nothing more. Her voice as she spoke her responses was soft and clear—measured in a way that made it unreadable.

  So he held tight to her fingertips and tried to divine her thoughts there. A twitch here, some stiffness at that bit, now relaxed again—but in the end, the same way a jumble of letters wasn’t a complete novel, the slight motions he studied so carefully didn’t allow him to know her.

  He was promising himself to her for life, but he couldn’t see past the veil concealing her, the mask she’d assumed for the event. He’d always seen past it before—why couldn’t he now, when it mattered so much?

  He was concentrating on her hands so hard, it was a few moments before it sank in the ceremony was over. She smiled that slow, sweet smile of hers—the first real expression of hers he could see, the smile he wanted to lap up like a cat—and she said, “I believe everyone is waiting for us.”

  He clutched the lace weighting her veil, heavy and rough, and slowly raised it before tossing it over her head to reveal his bride. Her mouth was still tipped in that smile, but her gaze was uncertain.

  He’d make her certain of him. Of the home they’d fashion together. Cupping her jaw in his hands—so fine the bones, so soft her skin—he took her mouth.

  Believe in me.

  Dimly, he heard the gasps of the ladies and the hoots of the men. When he finally released her, she put her hands over her face to cover her blush, but he could see she was laughing. He giddily smiled back.

  The marriage license wiped that smile from his face. The line for his signature stared back at him accusingly, as if to ask, Who are you?

  The pen was cold in his hands, the very blankness of that line taunting him.

  Make certain it’s legal.

  If he put the name he wanted, someone could challenge the marriage. He glanced at his bride waiting with clasped hands for him to sign, her face hidden again behind the veil. Someone could take her from him if the license wasn’t unassailable.

  In the end, he’d set down William Jason Bannister in sloppy scrawl, hoping it was too illegible for any of the wedding party to notice, but just legible enough to pass legal muster.

  Back at the Rancho Moreno, a wedding party like no other had been waiting. He had seen a few fiestas in Los Angeles as a boy, supposedly like the ones from the days of Spanish rule. But after seeing this one, he knew those were pale copies. This one was the essence of community, hospitality, and graciousness—as a fiesta should be. Succulent beef, pork, and goat had been in a pit barbecue for days, while every family in Cabrillo had brought a dish to share. A man could feast for a week on the desserts alone. There’d been dancing—and some whiskey, provided by Larsen of course. There were horse races between Juan, Felipe, and some of the visiting family. The vaqueros even had a rodeo.

  All in all, the Moreno family put on quite a show of happiness. But as he’d looked about him at the remnants of Spanish California assembled for the wedding of one of its daughters, he couldn’t help but to think on the Rancho Alvarado. What it had been when he was a boy. What it was now. How it must have been when this family ruled it.

  Was this what the Alvarados mourned, the death of this gracious way of living? He always thought the “fine Spanish families from the old days” bit was only sentimental tripe for the tourists, but in the midst of this living, breathing family, celebrating together, he wasn’t so certain.

  If it hadn’t been for his family, they might have celebrated Catarina’s wedding on the Rancho Alvarado itself.

  He’d looked for her throughout the day, when he wasn’t stealing a dance with her. Each time his gaze had found her, she’d been surrounded by relatives, smiling and laughing, with a glow that warmed his bones. And though his hands ached with it, he never tried to hold her by his side, letting her spin away whenever her relatives called, biding his time until the festivities ended and he could have her all to himself.

  There were no relatives to call for her now. Just her and him, heading home.

  As soon as they were out of sight of the rancho’s gates, the sniffles started. He kept his eyes firmly on Spot’s ears. She only needed a little time and then she’d feel better.

  But his fingers did their own deciding. They crept toward hers, wrapped so tight around the buggy seat. And when their fingers found one another, his curled into hers.

  The sniffles slowed.

  “Did I tell you how beautiful you were today?” Commenting on her beauty was a sure way to pull her from her melancholy.

  “No,” she said shakily. Her hand moved slightly under his. “I feel as if I hardly saw you.”

  “Darlin’, I was staring at you during that whole wedding, and if I remember correctly, you were staring right back. I didn’t have my watch handy, but I’m guessing it went on for about an hour straight.”

  She tossed her head, but he still couldn’t see around that damn hat. “Staring all that time, and you never thought to tell me how I looked? Perhaps you should do so now.”

  Now, there was his girl—the vain little flirt who fed on compliments like a hummingbird on nectar.

  He lowered his voice to a rough rasp, aiming at the spot on the bonnet he supposed her ear was behind. “You looked so good in that dress, I couldn’t wait to get you home and get it off you.”

  “Too bad for you it’s already off. Will this one do just as well?” Amusement colored her voice.

  “I suppose it’ll have to.” He let out the saddest sigh he’d ever managed.

  She burst out laughing and finally faced him. Her eyes sparkled like whiskey held in cut crystal and a pink flush bloomed on her cheeks. “I see you managed to hitch Spot to the buggy. I wouldn’t have thought his pride could fit between the shafts.”

  Spot flicked an indignant ear back toward them.

  “You be nice to Spot,” he chided her. “I won’t have my two favorite people feuding.”

  “So I’m now held in the same esteem as your horse?” she asked dryly. “I never thought I could rise to such heights. Speaking of your favorite people,” she continued, “Felipe told me he’s giving us one of his litters of puppies next spring.”

  “Yes, and he’s going help train them. I’m going to have to make sure they speak English and not Spanish, though.”

  She looped her arm through his, scooting across the seat to get closer to him. Thank God Spot didn’t pull like that damn donkey, as distracted as he was by her softness against him. Had the Lord ever made anything as tempting as those breasts rubbing against his arm?

  “It’s a fine gift he’s giving us,” she said. “Those dogs of his are famo
us across the state. I think they have some at the Circle T.”

  “You don’t say.” Why was she talking about the damn dogs? She ought to be figuring out how to get closer.

  “I’m fairly certain they do. His father taught him all about cattle dogs, you know.”

  He pressed his arm into her breast as deeply as he dared, which wasn’t nearly deeply enough. “Whose father?”

  “Felipe’s. Have you been listening to me at all?” She pulled her arm from his and began pawing through her pockets. “Before I forget,” she muttered, “I got you a wedding present.”

  “A what?”

  She shoved a square of fabric at him. “It’s not much, I know, but I thought you should have something.”

  He drew rein, stopping them right in the middle of the road. Rubbing the square between his fingers, he said, “But I didn’t get you anything.”

  A wedding present for her had never crossed his mind. Had she been expecting something? Not even married a full day, and he was already disappointing her.

  She was staring at her folded hands. “A house of my own is a fairly large gift.”

  His fingers found an odd lump in the fabric. He shook it out and saw that it was his handkerchief, the one he’d given her. Picked out in deep blue thread were the initials JM.

  “I didn’t know what your middle name was,” she explained. “Do you have a middle name?”

  Jason. William Jason Bannister, Jr.

  He shook his head. That embroidery floss was so smooth—his fingers slipped right over it.

  “Do you like it?” Her voice reflected back his anxiety.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, it’s very nice. Thank you.” He shoved it into his pocket and chirruped to Spot.

  She set her hands back on the buggy bench, her fingers wrapping tightly around the edge again.

  I love it. He bit back the words. He wanted her to sidle next to him again, he wanted her to feel better—but this depth of unease in his chest wasn’t love.

  It was only the first day—there’d be time enough to puzzle out how best to please her.