Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  Perro wriggled his way out of some buckwheat, covered from head to toe in foxtails. Jace rubbed him all over, the dog grunting with pleasure as he did.

  “You are the dumbest dog ever,” her husband said cheerfully. “The stupidest creature I ever met. Yes, you.”

  Perro’s tongue lolled, his eyes rolling back with adoration.

  And so the love affair between man and canine began. “I suppose he’s not going back now?” she asked.

  Jace ducked his head and rubbed at the dog’s belly. “We’ll see. If he decides to stick around, I don’t know how we’ll stop him. Doesn’t listen worth a damn.”

  Heaven forbid he admit he was fond of the dog, even as affection dripped from every syllable.

  “It seems the fences are coming along.” She gestured toward his hard work. He couldn’t be embarrassed to speak of that.

  “Mmmm. It’ll still take some time before it’s finished. I won’t get the barns and corrals ready near as fast as you fixed up the house.”

  Was that a compliment? Finally? She decided to take it as such. “Will it be ready for when our hundred head come?”

  He smiled, looking pleased for some reason. “It’ll have to be.”

  “You know,” she said, frowning at the fence waiting to be finished, “you don’t have to do this all on your own. Why don’t you hire some hands to help? If you go to the reservation there are always some Cahuilla boys who need work. And they’ll work cheaply, as well.”

  The pleasure on his face disappeared, replaced by grim disapproval.

  “I haven’t got the money for it,” he bit off. “Since we don’t have to pay for cattle this year, I bought a team and wagon off of the Larsens and I’ll need to buy hay for this winter. That nest egg I saved is gone.”

  The bubble of her good mood popped at his words. “But I have money. And my papa would likely be happy to share hay with you this winter if you help cut it. Or even loan you money, if you’d like.”

  His jaw was rigid and his eyes tight. “I don’t want any of your pa’s money.”

  “But you’ll take his cattle?” She couldn’t quite believe how unreasonable he’d suddenly turned. As unreasonable as he’d been with the washtub.

  He rose, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at him. “Is that your solution to everything? Just hire someone else to do it? I’ve worked too long and too hard to get this place to hire it out to someone else.”

  “I don’t see how hiring someone else to do things is my solution, considering I’ve been doing all the housekeeping on my own,” she spat in reply. What exactly did he think she did all day? Swan about on her imaginary fainting couch?

  He grunted, taking a step back. “Keep your money; I want to do the work myself. And if it’s going to get done in time, I’ve got to get back to it. I thank you for the dinner.”

  He left her without a farewell, alone amid the remains of their dinner, as the brace of rabbits he’d gifted her watched with unseeing eyes.

  The rest of the week was more of the same, a strange dance between them where for a few moments they would be in perfect step, flowing together, and then suddenly one of them would step on the other’s foot and it would come to a stuttering, stumbling halt. This getting along together wasn’t something she’d thought of beforehand, but it seemed it was the hardest part of being married.

  There were good bits. One day, she found him setting up a clothesline for her in a sunny spot behind the house.

  “This way you won’t have to hang the clothes in the oak tree anymore,” he explained.

  When he caught her removing yet another snake from the front porch, he’d told her to call him instead. She’d thought it rather silly to have her husband take care of some little garter snakes when she was perfectly capable, but she’d been more than glad of it when she’d stumbled across a rattler later.

  They enjoyed a dinner pail in the fresh air every day, the freedom of being out of doors making it easy to sit together in silence or chat about their daily tasks.

  It was when they came indoors that everything ground to a halt. He bolted his food like a starving hound—and given how silent he was, she had no hope of ever having a proper conversation at supper.

  She was finally sitting at the head of her own table, small as it was, just as she’d imagined when she’d watched her own mother doing the same. But she wasn’t wearing a cloak of dignified power, her husband bending to her every whim adoringly.

  Catarina was cloaked in uncertainty, her silent husband not even asking what her whims were.

  As she stared at his stony face at supper, that malevolent little voice would start up again, reminding her the only thing he was interested in was the stock she brought with her and not herself.

  But then he’d carry her off to the bedroom, and in the dark hours between dusk and dawn, when their bodies met in a perfect conjunction of desire and pleasure, her hopes for the next day would be renewed again.

  Sunday. Tomorrow was Sunday and he could rest.

  Jace splashed some more water from the outdoor basin on his face and scrubbed hard with his hands. When he was done, he reached for the towel his wife had hung there.

  So considerate, his wife. So quiet, as she waited and watched at supper for him to…

  Well, he didn’t exactly know. The mask she wore at supper was her most impenetrable one yet. Out of doors, she laughed and chatted and was—beautiful. Indoors, she was solemn—another glittering ornament in that house. Something he wasn’t meant to touch.

  Except in the bedroom. There he could touch to his heart’s content.

  The light had gone to soft gold and the shadows were long, the oak tree sending black phantom branches all the way to the road through its shadow. It seemed as if all of creation was taking a moment to yawn and stretch before night came on.

  He squared his shoulders and headed for the house. He only had to make it through supper and then he could pull them both into the bedroom, where nothing was wrong between them. Only the rightness that came when their bodies met wordlessly in the dark.

  She was neat as ever, bustling about as she plated their suppers. “Good evening,” she said, as if he were a passing guest and not her husband.

  He grunted in response. He was tired and he didn’t want to have to work at politeness tonight. Her jaw was tight as she set his plate in front of him. He began eating before she sat down. The sooner he finished, the less time spent with her watching him in silence.

  Her plate met the table with a thunk sharp enough to rattle the silverware.

  “Aren’t you going to change for dinner?” The cinnamon of her eyes was spicy enough to burn.

  “No,” he bit off. “I’m not going to change for dinner. Why the hell would I do that?”

  She didn’t sit, just stood over him with her fingers curled into the table’s edge. “A gentleman would. He’d also wait for me to begin, he’d hold out my chair, he’d say something about how nice the house is—”

  He threw his fork onto his plate. “I told you before, I’m no gentleman.”

  She went still as stone, her nostrils flaring as she drew air.

  He blinked and swallowed hard before picking up his fork again, the metal cold against his fingers. “Sit down, please. Eat.”

  She went silently to her chair, carefully smoothing her napkin in her lap. He waited until she took her first bite, then pushed his own fork into—

  “What is this?” He twisted the fork to get a better view. No, no better at that angle.

  “Nopales.”

  She knew damn well he didn’t speak any Spanish. “What is that?”

  Stabbing her own fork into it, she answered coolly, “Cactus.”

  He shoved the plate away. “I’m not eating cactus.”

  She was out of her chair so fast, it toppled over behind her. Both plates were snapped up before he could blink and then she was in the kitchen, the plates on the counter as she gripped the sink and muttered to herself in Spanish.


  He stared at the empty spot where his supper had been.

  He’d wanted her to drop her impassive, wifely mask, only not like this. Not because she was angry with him. Not because he’d behaved like an ass.

  I want more.

  He rose and went to the kitchen. She didn’t bother to look at him. He scooped up some of the nopales and choked them down. “Not bad,” he sputtered, going back for more.

  A slight glance from those cinnamon eyes, a glint of amusement there. “You don’t have to like everything I make.”

  “I love everything you make.” He speared some beef, slow cooked to spicy tenderness. “Now, this”—he gestured with the fork—“this I could eat every day for the rest of my life.” He took another bite.

  She turned to him then, all of her softening.

  “Here.” He lifted the fork to her mouth. “Have some. You didn’t eat anything.”

  Her lips wrapped slowly around the fork, her eyes never leaving his as she chewed. “A little too much mint,” she pronounced.

  A soft laugh left his lips as he raised the fork to hers again. “Darlin’, I’m sorry I was snappish. If I change for dinner”—which he never would—“it’ll just be more washing for you.”

  “Mmm.” Her lips twitched, but she didn’t insist that he change. Perhaps he’d convinced her.

  He took another bite himself. “Tell me what you did today.” It wasn’t only idle politeness on his part—how did she spend the hours when she was away from him?

  She tapped her lip as she recalled. “I went by the orchard this morning and picked apples. I ironed this afternoon, checked on my garden…”

  He let the rhythms of her recitation wash over him, the pride shining from her as she talked about her garden, her kitchen, sparking a fond ache in his chest.

  She’d wanted a house of her own. And he’d given it to her.

  “What did you do today?” she asked.

  He tipped another bite into her mouth. “I rode the fence line on the east pasture, fixed that rain barrel for you, and…” He raised a finger as his memory caught. “Oh, and James Harper came for a visit and we talked about my plans for the south pasture.”

  “Mary came with him,” she said. “We had tea and I showed her our home.”

  Our home. His heart almost stopped at the words.

  He cleared his throat as he pushed the last few bites around the plate. “Isn’t this nice?” His voice was rough—too rough, because this intimacy was nice. More than nice.

  She shifted slightly, her gaze resting consideringly on him. “What?” she asked warily.

  “Eating together in the kitchen. Sharing a plate.”

  “You don’t want to eat at the table?”

  Not if it meant she’d put on that silly mask of hers again. She’d been more animated in these few minutes in the kitchen than she’d been all week at the dining table. He hooked a thumb into the waistband of her skirt and tugged her to him. “No. I can get real close to you here. And if we share a plate, it’s one less dish for you to wash.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Last bite,” he prompted. When she’d swallowed, he brought her to stand between his legs. “Next year,” he said in a low voice, “that could be our beef.”

  A deep exhale from her as she crowded closer.

  “It’ll be our cattle in the corrals.” He set a hand against her belly. “Our babies in the cradle.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”

  He lifted her onto the counter then, taking her mouth with urgent intent.

  More.

  “Wait,” she gasped. “Not on the counter; it’s unhygienic.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh as he scooped her up and carried her to their bed. He tossed her onto the quilt, ruining the neatness of the bed, and began undoing the buttons running down the front of her, pulling hard when they wouldn’t come free as quickly as he wanted.

  “Please.” She was laughing herself. “Don’t tear another of my dresses.”

  He pushed back to loom over her. A wicked impulse thrummed in his blood.

  “You do it,” he ordered. “Take it off.”

  The little minx raised her hand as slowly as possible to the buttons, easing the first one free with a teasing languidness. “Like that?”

  “Faster.”

  Her laugh was as hot and slow as her fingers. When the dress was finally, finally off, she leaned back on her elbows and raised an eyebrow. Little minx, with her naughty teasing.

  “The corset.” He jerked his chin at it.

  She couldn’t take as long with that. Once it was over her head, he came forward to tear apart that chemise of hers, to tease her in his own way. He couldn’t hook an eyebrow as she did, couldn’t give that long, slow look from under his lashes—but he could have her naked in a trice.

  “Wait.” She waggled a saucy finger at him. “No more ruining my clothes, remember?”

  He growled and she gave a great peal of a laugh. Once the chemise was gone, he could hold back no longer, kissing and licking from her breasts all the way to—

  “What are you doing?” She sat up, but he held fast to her thighs. “You can’t…”

  He rubbed his nose against the silk of her inner thigh. God, but she smelled tempting. “I put my fingers there,” he whispered against her skin. “My cock. Why not my mouth?”

  She went still with consideration. “Do other people do that?”

  “I don’t know what other people do.” He kissed his way a little closer, until her curls brushed his cheek. “I only know what I want to do to you. Please, Kitty Cat. I promise you’ll like it.”

  He kept his promises. He’d prove it to her.

  She relaxed a fraction. “Have you done it before?”

  “No. Never even occurred to me until you.”

  All of her sank into the bed then. “All right. You stop if you don’t like it,” she ordered.

  He laughed silently between her thighs, then darted his tongue out for that first taste. Tang and musk and… her. He licked again, the tip of his tongue catching on the nub there. She shuddered. Oh, she liked that. He learned her then, with tongue and lips, learned what she liked and what she loved, until all of her was one sustained shudder of pleasure beneath his mouth.

  When her quivering slowed, he pulled her to the edge of the bed before going for the fastening of his pants. She rose up to join him, her fingers tangling with his as she found his cock and guided it to her. He slid his hands under her hips and pulled himself deeply into her.

  “Did you like it?” he rasped into her ear.

  “I loved it,” she whispered back, lifting to meet his thrust. “But then, you did promise.”

  His climax, when it came, was a great wave of brightness, blinding him to everything but her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jace woke the next morning to his wife muttering to herself in the mirror, clad only in her chemise as she fiddled with her hair.

  “Mrs. Merrill. Mrs. Jace Merrill.” A pleased tilt of her head.

  Then a tilt to the other side.

  “Señora Moreno. Señora Merrill.” A cat’s frown there.

  “Mrs. Merrill. Mrs. Jace Merrill.” Her neck straightening, her voice stronger, clearer. Pleased.

  Would she be so pleased to know she was really Mrs. Bannister?

  Likely not. She wouldn’t stare in the mirror and test out that name.

  She might leave him. All of him clenched at the thought. And stayed clenched when he imagined never telling her. Never sharing all of himself with her.

  I want more.

  The idea had crept up on him gradually this week. It had begun with that letter, the one he could never send to his father. He still wanted to send it, wanted to rub his father’s nose in the very dirt of the ranch he now owned.

  But he wanted her more. And he wanted more of her.

  He hadn’t yet figured the puzzle of his wife, what pleased her, but last night had been a fine start. And now he wan
ted to give her a gift.

  She floated about the room, unaware he was awake, taking out her church clothes—first her corset, then a great armful of petticoats, followed by the deep blue dress she’d worn after their wedding. The one she’d been in when he finally took her home.

  He didn’t want to be around her family today. After last night, watching her assume her mask—the stilted, quiet one she wore around her family—would be torture. He wanted her all to himself. They didn’t need any preaching or family dinners today.

  No, what they needed was some rest.

  What they needed was some fishing.

  He pushed himself up on one elbow. “Kitty Cat, is there a fishing hole around here?”

  She frowned at his question as she clutched at her half-pulled-up stocking, the softness of her inner thigh peeping back at him. “There’s a little pond a few miles up the creek here, as you go up Mount Portola. Aren’t you going to get ready for Mass?”

  “Darlin’, what would you say if I were to suggest that we skip church today and go fishing instead?”

  “I would say you’re obviously making a joke, and a poor one at that.” She rolled the stocking all the way up her leg, her expression telling him, Get out of bed already. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

  “Come on, Kitty Cat,” he cajoled. “I can guarantee you’ve been to church every Sunday of your life. What’s one Sunday against a whole lifetime of Sundays?”

  “What will my parents say if I’m not at Mass today?”

  Her parents. His jaw tightened. “You’re married to me now,” he bit out more harshly than he’d intended, “and you ought to be thinking about what I’ll say, not your parents.”

  She watched him as if he were a dog that had unexpectedly snapped at her. “If you want to go fishing, we’ll go fishing,” she said in a small voice.

  “Good. Pack up some food for a picnic, too.”

  Hurt feelings weren’t what he wanted to give her. But it was too late, so he went to get his fishing gear.

  Their saddles creaked in unison as they made their way down the trail running along the creek, Jace on Spot and Catarina on her little bay mare. They’d come to a stretch of road entirely screened by a row of oaks, their branches so tightly entwined not a speck of sunshine passed through. The serrated leaves littering the ground beneath them crunched under the horses’ hooves.