Once she’d had enough, she pushed back from the table, never having been so satisfied by a meal in her life. Her table, her wedding feast, her house, her husband—why wouldn’t she be satisfied, now that she had everything she’d desired?
He smiled at her fondly. “Took care of your belly, huh?”
She grinned, not caring if it was unladylike. After all, wasn’t her husband stark naked at the breakfast table? “I don’t recall food tasting this good yesterday.”
The tension of yesterday coupled with last night’s release made her downright giddy. As if life itself was tickling her.
He slapped both hands on the table and slowly rose to his feet. It had been too dark last night to see him clearly, but she had felt every inch of him. Now she had a visual impression to go along with the physical one. It was all quite… impressive.
“Why don’t you put the coffee on,” he said, “while I go get my clothes? Perhaps you can pick out where you want your garden and we can start on it?”
He disappeared into the bedroom while she stoked the fire and prepared the coffee pot, the smell of the grounds as rich as her mood this morning. She wandered out to the front porch while the coffee brewed, her feet barely touching the ground. This fizzy light-headedness must be what they called the honeymoon glow.
Then she saw what was sleeping on the porch.
“Oh, no!”
Jace was out in a flash, shirtless, with his pants unbuttoned and his braces slapping against his legs.
“What the hell is that?”
“Don’t curse,” she reminded him. “I suppose he followed us home yesterday.”
“Is that at least one of the smarter ones?” He eyed the animal warily, as if deciding whether or not to go for his rifle.
“No, he’s probably the dumbest of the whole bunch,” she said with a resigned sigh.
“Of course.” He threw up his hands. “Out of all the stupid hounds your brother owns, the stupidest had to follow us home.”
The hound in question—a black and tan male with floppy ears—rolled to his back and thumped his tail against the porch floor, obviously begging to stay. Unable to resist, she bent down to give his belly a rub.
Her brother’s hounds, for all that they lacked a complete brain between them, never strayed far from Juan’s side. However had this one come to follow them here?
“What shall we name him?” she asked. Lord, but this dog smelled. If he did stay, he certainly wasn’t coming in the house.
“I don’t know. How do you say dog in Spanish?”
“Perro.”
“Then that’s his name. Perro.”
“You’re not very good at naming things,” she said. “You name your spotted horse Spot, and now you’re naming our dog… Dog.”
“Who said he was staying? Once your brother’s back, that dog’s gone.”
Perro padded over to Jace and gave his hand a long lick. Her husband stared suspiciously for a moment, then gave the dog a quick pat. Perro replied with a happy wriggle and a more extravagant lick.
“Mmm.” She’d seen men and their dogs before. After one day of Perro following him slavishly, Jace would be utterly devoted to him, no matter how dumb the dog was. Men seemed to like that kind of mute adoration.
“Well, you’re definitely not naming the cats,” she informed him.
He rubbed Perro’s ears vigorously. “Cats are easy to name. One, two, three.” He pointed out three imaginary cats in the yard. “And when those are gone, four, five, six.” He paused. “Of course, you could also just start over again at one, two, three.”
Silly man. As if refusing to name something properly meant he wouldn’t develop an abiding affection for it. Already he was wrestling with the dog; in a few weeks he’d regret such a ridiculous name.
Although… he continued to call his horse Spot. All cowboys loved their horses, but Jace’s fondness for that prideful bit of horseflesh went deeper than most.
No. She wouldn’t ponder this unsettling entanglement of names and affection on the first morning of her wedding. Instead, she gazed out over what was now her front yard. Here and there, in the thick tangle of horrid mustard weed, a few brave sunflowers poked their heads up, their cheery faces turned toward the sun.
A brown figure, spotted with black, moving quick and low to the ground, caught her eye. Splashes of white and red framed its bright black eyes, and a long, flat tail flicked up and down, like a fancy lady wielding her fan.
“Oh, Jace, look!” She leaned out, the porch rail pressed just above the warmth blooming in her belly. “A roadrunner!”
A smile spread across his face when he caught sight of the bird.
“It’s good luck,” she said softly. The bird’s head tilted inquisitively, and Catarina caught her breath, not wanting to scare it away.
Perro stared up at their faces, tail thumping away, trying to figure out what was so interesting. The bird took one last look around, then darted off, his legs pinwheeling as he did.
“Good eye,” Jace said to the dog, shaking his head. “You were right on that bird.”
“No, he can’t go after roadrunners. I told you, they’re good luck.” Hopefully the bird had given them a full enough store of fortune—they’d no doubt need it.
“Oh, really?” His skepticism grated. “Is that some kind of Spanish tradition?”
“No, it’s our tradition,” she said, peevishness tightening her fingers on the porch rail. “We can make our own traditions now, and in our family, roadrunners are good luck.”
And so, their married life began.
What the hell had she done with the place?
Jace stood arrested in the doorway, taking in the house. Everything was so dainty and sparkling; she must have been at this all day. Blinding white curtains waved at him from the window, a china shepherdess winked at him from a side table, and her entire family glowered at him from a portrait on the mantel. There were overstuffed chairs now and side tables and lace bits hanging off them… Where was a man to sit in all this? He glanced down at himself, covered with the dust of the day.
No, he’d better not touch anything, or she’d be howling.
His wife. The daintiest, sparkling-est thing in the whole room. In a dress the purple of an evening sky, she looked ready to head off to church—not to eat supper with one dusty cowboy. He ran his hands through his damp hair, thankful he’d washed up before coming in to… this.
It wasn’t a bunkhouse. And it wasn’t like the sumptuous house he’d grown up in. It was something entirely outside of those.
“Good evening.” She stood near their little table, all set for dinner.
Waiting for him.
“Hello.” He made his way carefully through the room, dodging a little pewter dog on a side table just waiting for him to knock it to the floor. “What’s that out in the front yard?”
“Oh, just a washtub.” She gestured for him to sit. “Mrs. Crivelli brought it by. She has a new one and I mentioned to her the other week that I’d need one.”
He set his hand on his chair and frowned at her. “But now we owe them.”
Catarina shook her head. “She didn’t want any money for it.”
The chair scraped as he pulled it away from the table. “I mean that we owe them a favor now.”
She frowned at him as if he’d announced that from now on, two plus two would no longer equal four. “Well, yes. That’s part and parcel of being good neighbors.”
Favors were part of being entangled. First it was a washtub, then something else, and before one knew it, the ledger of favors was entirely misbalanced and not in a man’s favor. But he couldn’t send the washtub back, any more than he could refuse any other favor people might extend to them. He’d simply have to become accustomed to this entanglement business.
He crouched halfway toward his seat, then stopped at the expression on her face.
Idiot. Pull her chair out first.
“Sorry.” Her chair screamed against the floor as he
held it out for her.
“Thank you,” she said softly as he pushed her toward the table.
He settled into his own chair and took a deep breath. “Smells good.” He forked some meat into his mouth. Lord, this was more than good. Flank steak and mushrooms, with the sharp green taste of cilantro, all topped with roasted chiles—he shoved some more into his mouth and swallowed. “Your ma made this one Sunday. It’s just as good as hers.”
She stared at him, fork frozen and mouth tight. “Yes. Exactly as my mother makes.”
What the hell had he said wrong? Hadn’t he said it was good?
He gazed at his plate, sitting on a tablecloth brighter than the light of a full moon. The food smelled as enticing as it had before, but he suddenly wasn’t hungry. Silence fell, unbroken by even the tinkle of silverware against china, since the both of them had stopped eating.
He picked up his fork, decided to try again. “It’s better than your ma’s.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her own fork, but her head remained bent.
“Is there any bread?” he asked. The juices were too good to waste.
“I—I only made tortillas.” Her mouth quivered. “I was going to bake tomorrow.”
Hell, he couldn’t keep his foot out of his mouth with her. Although he didn’t quite see what was wrong with complimenting the food or asking for some bread. “It’s all right,” he assured her. His throat tight, he chewed slowly as he tried to think of something to say. The ribald jokes and breaking of wind that had passed for conversation in the bunkhouse wouldn’t do here. Not at all.
The house. He ought to say something about the house. She must have been scrubbing all day—it was almost as pretty as she was. He still didn’t want to touch any of it.
Perhaps he could tell her about his day. Would she care about fixing fence posts, clearing brush, or repairing the stalls in the barn? Her bent head, without a single hair out of place, gave him his answer: No.
Quiet and hunched like that, she looked like…
She looked like his mother; his memories of her were clear enough to recall that. Sometimes he imagined he could remember every blade of grass on the Rancho Alvarado—but the shade of his mother’s eyes was lost to him forever.
No. He gave himself a shake. This was foolishness. She wasn’t his mother, he wasn’t his father, and they’d muddle through these early days and somehow come to a proper understanding of the other.
Ranch work. He’d think on all the work for tomorrow, the fences still to be repaired, the windmill and troughs to check on—
“Are you finished?”
His gaze jerked up to find her hovering at his elbow. “Um, yes. Thank you.”
She took his plate without another word, carrying his and hers to the sink. An apron went over her head, her little hands tying the strings in a neat bow at the hollow of her back. That hollow had rested against his belly all last night as she’d slept in his arms.
She was exposing her own arms now, carefully rolling up her sleeves before plunging her hands into the wash water. The water sloshed and swirled as her hands swept across the dishes, wiping away all traces of the supper she’d cooked for them.
He rose and came to stand behind her. Peaches and dish soap filled his nose. He slipped his hands around her waist, bending to speak low in her ear.
“Leave all that, Kitty Cat. Come to bed with me.”
She held very still within his arms, but her ear tilted toward his mouth.
Please don’t pull away.
I want more.
I want all of you.
Choose me.
But he couldn’t speak any of that, could only ask with the press of his arms around her waist, the brush of his breath against her ear.
Giving voice to his need would make any rejection of hers too painful to bear.
She raised her hands from the sink, droplets falling from the tips of her fingers to rejoin the water below. And she leaned herself into him.
He led her back to the bedroom, where not another word was spoken.
Chapter Sixteen
Catarina awoke the next day much as she had the day before, well pleasured and a little sore. And determined to redouble her efforts from the previous day. If he hadn’t mentioned last night what had pleased him, perhaps it was because nothing had pleased him. She’d soon make that right.
He said nothing about the house because he doesn’t care about the house. The voice was a malevolent tickle. And he doesn’t care about you.
I’ll make him care.
While he fed the stock, she set to work making him a proper breakfast. When he returned, he stared openmouthed at the pancakes, biscuits, sausage, ham, and eggs she’d set out.
“When I left,” he said, “you were stoking the fire.”
She clenched her hands in her apron. “You prefer plain oatmeal for breakfast, don’t you?”
He grabbed her face in both hands, kissing her soundly. “Darlin’, do not ever, ever make me oatmeal for breakfast.” Then he ate every last bite. It seemed a hearty breakfast was one of the things that did please him.
Once he’d left for the day, she allowed herself to ponder more fully the thorny issue of pleasing a husband.
Perhaps her mother kept her father so biddable by keeping everything in the house exactly as he liked. So she scrubbed her house—her house, her things; what a thrill that was!—from top to bottom, rearranged the furniture, and switched out the curtains for another set, hoping the changes would be to Jace’s taste, that he’d utter some remark to make this all worthwhile.
That he’d change his clothes before dinner, open his mouth and speak—make some show that all this wasn’t a terrible burden.
That he wanted more than one hundred cattle.
Going outside to beat the rugs, she found him plowing the space she’d intended for a garden patch, Spot glaring balefully at her from the traces.
“I found this old plow in one of the barns, so I thought I’d help you get your garden patch ready,” he said, ducking his head as if embarrassed to be caught out. “I’ll fence it off tomorrow, then it should be all ready for you.”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “You didn’t have to do that; I was planning on clearing that patch later today.”
“Of course I had to do it,” he said gruffly. “I can’t have my wife breaking ground and building fences.”
A soft sort of warmth settled in the vicinity of her heart. “Spot doesn’t seem too happy to be plowing.” The horse looked downright murderous about it, at least as far as a horse could look murderous.
Jace shrugged sheepishly. “He’ll get over it.”
She headed back into the house, a grin on her face. Until she realized her terrible, horrible mistake from yesterday.
She’d never given him any dinner.
She’d been so busy setting up the house, she hadn’t given a thought to dinner for either of them. No wonder he’d been such a bear at supper.
Now the dilemma was: did she wait for him to come to the house, or did she bring him a dinner pail where he was working? Her papa always washed up and came to the house at noon, but given Jace’s behavior last night, he didn’t seem too interested in the proper way of doing things.
She supposed she could simply find him and ask what he preferred, but somehow she felt this was something she should already know, a kind of wifely knowledge that became innate upon the recital of the vows. What kind of wife didn’t know what her husband preferred for dinner?
Her mother never asked her father what he preferred, at least that Catarina had ever seen.
She would take Jace a pail.
She found him out by the main corral, painstakingly threading branches of cleared brush through the barbed wire to make a solid fence. Her stomach did a queer little flip. He didn’t notice her right away, giving her a moment to watch him covertly.
His hat shaded his face from sight, the muscles of his arms and back straining against the fabric of his shir
t as he lifted each branch with an easy grace. His movements spoke to a familiarity with hard work that was irresistible to her. Let the other girls keep their storekeepers and lawyers; she’d take a laboring man, thank you very much.
He was singing a song she’d never heard before, about a “beauteous Catarina.”
“Oh, but I cannot live without her,” he sang low and sweet, and her heart twisted.
Because, oh, how she wanted to believe it, that there was more between them in this marriage than intemperate lust and one hundred head of cattle. She watched the play of the muscles in his back, heard him sing about a girl that might have been her, and prayed Oh, please.
His face broke into a smile when he finally saw her, and she believed he truly was happy to see her.
“I brought a dinner pail.” She lifted the tin bucket with its gingham napkin cover.
Those delicious crinkles around his bright blue eyes appeared. “Darlin’, you read my mind. I was beginning to get powerfully hungry.” She grinned back and swung the bucket in a pleased arc. “Why don’t you spread it out under that pine tree, and I’ll go get your present.”
A present? For her?
While she laid out the food—gorditas with leftover barbecued goat, an avocado salad made with fruit brought by her relatives, and some dulce californiano for a sweet—he disappeared into the brush, only to reappear with two fat rabbits in hand.
“I thought you might like some fresh rabbit for supper,” he said, his eyes dropping almost shyly, “so I set some snares.”
Again, that soft warmth settled near her heart.
“I’d love to have a rabbit stew tonight.” She patted the ground next to her. “Come have dinner.”
They ate in quiet contentment for several minutes, the whisper of the wind through the pines and the myriad birdcalls all that were needed to fill the silence.
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