Perro trotted at Spot’s heels, disappearing every so often to investigate God only knew what. Catarina didn’t care to know, considering the gift he’d left on the front porch two days ago.
“Where’s this pond?” Jace asked.
He was wearing his work clothes—but not the chaps she so admired—all of him loose limbed as his hips rolled with his horse. There would be the devil to pay when her parents discovered their absence at Mass, but it was worth it in this moment, with this man riding beside her on a slow summer Sunday.
“We call it Rattlesnake Pond,” she said. “Just keep following the creek toward Mount Portola. We’ll come across it in a little while.”
“Rattlesnake Pond? That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”
“Oh, there’s not really any rattlers there,” she explained. “Juan tied some dead ones to the trees to scare Felipe a few years back.”
“Did it work?”
She slanted him a look. “They call it Rattlesnake Pond, don’t they?”
He gave her a sardonic smile that she couldn’t help returning.
The insects chirped and the birds sang. The buckwheat nodded lazily in the sage-scented breeze and the redshank waved their branches as if in greeting. It seemed all of creation was enjoying this lazy morning. A small patch of mountain lilac popped from amid all the muted greens of the sagebrush, a happy little purple greeting.
“I saw our roadrunner yesterday,” he said. “He had a little lizard in his beak, running off to enjoy his dinner.”
Our roadrunner. The bird had brought them a kind of luck—that Jace had remembered, that it made her so pleased that he had. She smiled. “Did you have good luck after that?” she asked.
“I did. I got all the fencing in that last corral filled in. I wasn’t expecting to finish up until next week.”
“Are we ready for our hundred head, then?”
His teeth gleamed, so wide was his smile. “Yep, your pa can bring them over any time next week. I’ll ride over tomorrow to talk with him about it.”
“Can I go with you?” Her voice was wistful.
She’d wanted to go visit them earlier in the week, but there’d been too much to do. Also, it struck her as silly to be so homesick when she’d finally gotten everything she’d ever wanted. But she didn’t try to explain that to her husband, not with this mysterious family he’d run from all those years ago. He’d never understand.
Jace looked over at her. “This marriage business takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?” he asked gruffly.
“I suppose it’s a little strange.” She shrugged, watching the road and not his reaction, so that the words might come more easily. “Surprisingly, it’s much harder to cook for two than for more. And I’m not used to speaking English most of the time.”
It was part of the truth. But only part. The other half was too mixed up to put into words. Last night, though, the two of them sharing a plate in the kitchen, talking of their day—that hadn’t been mixed up at all. Everything had been perfectly proportioned then.
“You know,” he said idly, “for a Mexican, you speak English real well.”
Her head whipped around, her eyes and mouth pinching up. “I’ll have you know I was not born in Mexico. I was born here, in California, as you were,” she huffed, the reins biting into her hands. “My parents ensured we learned English before we went to school, where we learned—yes—even more English.” Which I speak as well as you. “I suppose you think I should be talking like this: sí, sí, Señor?” Her accent went absurdly thick at the end, mocking him with the exaggeration.
He grinned. “Yeah, I did think that might come out when I first saw you.”
Her pique fled before that smile, and she playfully slapped his arm. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Come on, use that accent on me again.” He waggled his eyebrows and leered at her, making laughter burst from her lips. “It gets me all hot and bothered.”
“Oh no, Señor, no, I could not possibly do that.” She slathered her accent on like butter on bread, batting her eyelashes at him.
“Ah, just like that.” He pushed Spot closer to her mare.
She giggled and nudged her horse into a lope. “No, Señor, I must not. You are a bad man!”
As she’d hoped, he gave chase, spurring Spot on just enough to keep close, but never enough to actually catch her, all the while leering at her like a dime-novel villain. With every waggle of his eyebrows, every flash of his grin, she giggled harder, until by the time they arrived at the pond, she was breathless.
The pond was serenely lovely, with Mount Portola rearing its rocky heights above its tree-lined banks. The trees swayed and sighed with the wind, but the surface of the pond was as smooth as if it had been ironed.
Jace tied up the horses in the shade while she set out the hamper. A red gingham tablecloth, beef jerky, a few slices of hard cheese, some cherries and peaches from the orchard, a hunk of bread, a jar of olives, and a jug of ginger beer. A prettier picnic she couldn’t imagine.
A gentle splashing came from the bank and she turned to see Jace crouched there, testing the water with the tips of his fingers.
“What kind of fish are there?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never been fishing before. Juan and Felipe come here, but I think they always wanted to get away from us rather than do any serious fishing.” She laughed lightly. “Lord, it would make Franny so angry when they wouldn’t let her come along.”
“You’ve never been fishing?”
“No. Women don’t fish, according to Juan.”
“Well, he might have a point. I can’t say I’ve ever seen it, but I also haven’t had much close contact with your sex.”
“Oh, really?” Her eyebrows quirked up in disbelief.
“But you know what I’ll do?” he continued. “I’ll teach you how. We’ll prove to Juan women can fish, and I’ll have the only fisherwoman in California.”
She liked the sound of that.
He spent several hours teaching her the finer points of fishing—his arms tight around her, his hips pressed into her bottom, all of him a little closer than necessary. She caught two fish; he caught one. Small things, but just right for dinner for two tonight. She’d grill them with some salsa verde, perhaps some roasted potatoes to go along.
As she packed up the fish, Jace put away the fishing poles, then began to strip off his clothes.
She dropped the jug of ginger beer as if were boiling. “What are you doing?”
He raised a naughty eyebrow as he let his smalls fall to the ground. “Swimming. Come on—get those clothes off.”
She could only watch with hanging jaw as he ambled into the water, all of his backside flexing as he did.
“Come on, Kitty Cat.” He floated on his back, water swirling as he pushed himself out.
She clutched at the neck of her dress. “But someone might see.”
“Everyone’s at church. Only us sinners out here.”
Her belly clenched with guilt. What would her parents say? Not only was she missing Mass, but Jace wanted her to parade around in the nude.
You want to.
He was coming back to the shore, a predatory gleam in his eye. “Kitty Cat.” Warning and pleading all in one.
She swallowed. “Cats don’t swim.”
He was standing waist deep, the water licking at that trail of hair that lead to…
“Tigers swim.” A wicked grin curved his lips. His hand slapped at the water, sending a wave to land right at the tips of her toes. “And I know you’re not afraid of the water.”
She couldn’t very well deny that—not that she wanted to, her mouth twitching with half a smile at his teasing words.
“All right.” She quickly stripped down to her chemise and went to the bank, going so far as to get her ankles wet.
He called out: “Take off your chemise. Can’t walk around later in wet clothes. You’ll catch your death of a cold.”
She laughed as
she pulled that last bit of clothing over her head, her embarrassment now only a faint prickling along her skin. And then she was dashing into the water, churning it with her pumping legs, waves rippling out from her forward motion.
He met her halfway, scooping her up, then dragging her deep. “See? Fun, isn’t it?” A frown crossed his face. “Can you swim?”
“A little late to ask now, but yes, I can.”
He towed the both of them out to the middle, where his feet could touch but hers couldn’t, forcing her to wrap herself around him. She loved the way he held her—tightly, without apology. There was never any asking in his touch—his voice, yes; the events of last night were proof—but his body was always sure of hers.
Their skins were slick against each other, his muscles flexing deeply against her flesh as he held her upright. The sun was hot against her bare head, but beneath the surface everything was cool and languid, as if her limbs were dissolving into the water.
“Give me a kiss,” he growled.
She did, his mustache rough against her lips as they devoured each other’s mouths. Rubbing her hips along his, she summoned his hardness, that thick length she wanted inside her.
The first time there had been pinches of pain, glimmers amidst the pleasure swamping her. That was to be expected. But what had come after, all those nights together—she hadn’t expected the pain would entirely disappear and the pleasure would grow and grow.
She wrapped her fingers around his length and wiggled so that she could bring him to her.
“Catarina,” he groaned against her mouth. “You can’t possibly be ready.”
“But I am.” And she sank deeply onto him.
Her eyelids fluttered closed as his fingers pressed into her hips, his own hips thrusting up in a ragged tempo. “Catarina, Catarina,” he whispered into her neck, hotter than the sun bearing down on them, fiercer than the jerk of his hips into hers…
They shuddered together in completion, the water hiding and joining them at the same time.
She gently pulled herself away, flipping over to float on the surface, spreading her arms and legs wide. He stayed close by, his hand at the small of her back, keeping her from sinking.
She didn’t even have to ask and he was there, just as she hadn’t had to ask for his help with the garden or the clothesline or the leaking rain barrel. He did it all without a word from her.
In all her imaginings of marriage, there had been nothing like this. Her poor little brain had only seen her sitting at the head of her own table, ruling over everything in her view as her mother did. It couldn’t see her floating on a Sunday afternoon, her husband supporting her with only the tips of his fingers.
The cottonwood overhead stretched its branches out over the pond, the wind setting the leaves to twirling and catching the light, the tree looking as if it wore nothing but silver coins. Her hair drifted along with her, brushing against her arms every so often, the water lapping at her sensitized skin like a thousand tiny, cool tongues.
“He was cruel, so cruel.”
The words were faint in her mind now, more a memory of a memory, faded and creased. There were no Bannisters, not here.
Jace wasn’t cruel—he was wonderful.
Her marriage might not quite be what she’d imagined, with its snarls and stumbles, but if imaginings couldn’t encompass this moment, then what good were they?
Floating there, she let her foolish fantasies float away, to sink into the murk under her. When they were gone, she turned attention to the touch at her back—him, holding her—and greeted the reality of her marriage.
Jace spread himself out on the blanket, the breeze cool against his damp skin as he set his arm over his face. His belly was full, he’d spent himself in his wife, he was just on the right side of sleepy… this was utter contentment. Perfection.
A rustling at his ear was Catarina coming near, the blanket pulling under him as she approached, his skin coming alive at her closeness. She put an arm across his belly, her thigh over his, her curls pressing against his hip. Her breath and scent surrounding him.
No, now it was utter contentment. Perfection.
“Someone might see,” she whispered.
He slid his free arm under the dip of her waist and clasped her tightly. “Might be.”
What did it matter if someone did? She was his. He was hers. No one could intrude on that.
Home.
That’s what this was. This heavy contentment coming from his very bones, the rightness of having her fitted into him. When his finger had taken that trip across that map, this was what it had been looking for. What he’d been looking for.
His fingers trailed along her torso. There were her ribs, rising and falling with her breath, only a few finger steps away from her lovely breasts. Travel south and he found the dip of her waist. Keep going and he climbed the rise of her hips. A baby might be cradled between those hips even now.
Their baby.
He tightened his arm around her waist.
Someday, son, all this will be yours.
He’d keep that promise to his son. But only if the boy wanted the land and the life that came with it. Jace wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of the past.
And as for that letter to his father—all that was in his past. The Rancho Alvarado, his childhood, running away—they were a dim memory in the sleepy contentment of this moment.
He wanted nothing more than what he had right now.
Except for that last tiny bit.
He wanted all of her. No masks or artifice between them. So he’d have to discard his last deception to give her all of himself.
He only hoped that she thought the Rancho Alvarado a dim memory as well.
He filled his lungs, keeping his arm over his eyes, his ribs stretching almost painfully. Then all out again, until there was nothing left to force out.
He was ready.
“Darlin’?”
“Mmm?” Sleepy, fond. She shifted, her skin slipping along his.
“You know how I said my name was Merrill?”
A tightening of her arm, pressure from her thigh. “Yes?” But she didn’t move away.
“I—that wasn’t exactly true.”
Her thigh disappeared, her arm lifted—but her hand remained on his chest, her palm heavy against his sternum. “How was it not true?”
The cold moving across his skin wasn’t only from the breeze—unease slithered there as well.
How was it not true?
It was, in certain regards. He’d been Jace Merrill for thirteen years, almost as long as he’d been William Jason Bannister. Jace Merrill certainly fit the man he’d become better than the other name did. His grandfather’s creed wasn’t his, nor was his father’s. There was nothing of the Bannister name left within him. To himself, he was Jace Merrill.
In the eyes of the law, he wasn’t.
But how to make her perceive all that?
Start at the beginning.
“I grew up on a rancho. A big one.”
“I see.” She likely did—Americans possessing a large rancho at that time? She could fill in the details there.
But not the specific details. Not the most dangerous ones.
“My grandfather said it would someday be mine, that I would ride across it with my own herds. But when he died, my father moved us all to Los Angeles. We wouldn’t be ranchers any longer—we would be gentlemen.”
A stronger pressure of her hand as she came closer again. “But you’re no gentleman.”
His smile was tight, bitterly wry. “No. It never suited me. When I was fifteen, my father took us out to the rancho one last time. All of it was gone, the land scraped flat and bare, covered with half-built houses.” The memory made his breath catch. “My father said that this was the future of California. And that it would secure our future as gentlemen.” He pondered how best to phrase the next, how to explain what he’d done. But only artless words would come. “I left that night and never looked back.”
“Never even wrote,” he admitted roughly.
“But… but they must have been so worried!” A quick tap of her hand—a reprimand that resonated through his bones. “Oh, you must write now and let them know you’re alive.”
“No.” He shook his head, his arm scrubbing across his face as he did. “I can’t do that.”
“Not even to tell them that you’ve married?” He heard her swallow. “To tell them of me?”
Lord, but he ached to. Ached to tell Barbara he’d found a lady as managing as she, tell Diana how he’d taught her to fish—she’d laugh at that.
And his father—he wanted to prove to Judge Bannister that he was his own man, that he’d succeeded all on his lonesome. He also wanted to show off his wife, because damn it, she was—
The words failed him, all used up in trying to explain to her the truth. And there was nothing he could say to his father that would make him look past the fact that she was Mexican. And an Alvarado.
“I—I can’t ever tell them about you.” Here it came—that leap where he couldn’t see the other side. If he tensed his legs and jumped, he’d have to trust to whatever he was landing in—thorns or soft grass—to catch him. “I didn’t tell you my true name.”
Her fingers trailed across his arm, trying to soothe him into the admission. “You can tell me anything. I’m your wife.”
He prayed to God that would hold true. “My given name is William Jason Bannister, Jr.”
Stillness. Stillness such as he’d never known before. Stillness he’d never thought to know until death. And then a whoosh of air as she scrambled away.
He sat up, letting his arm fall from his eyes so that he might see her.
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