by Ginna Gray
"Sure. Whatever you say. Lead the way."
Looking back over his shoulder, Max realized that the farmhouse sat atop a small hill, about a mile off a secondary country road. From the back of the house the land gradually sloped downward to the banks of the Brazos River.
"The farm is basically a long, irregular rectangle that stretches out from here equidistant to the north and the south along the east bank of the Brazos," Elizabeth explained. "That's probably a lot farther than you'd want to walk in one day. My foreman, Truman Sawyer, and the other hired hands ride four-wheelers to get around. We could use those if you'd like."
"No, I'd rather walk."
"Me, too."
In silence, they walked along a well-worn path toward the river, he with his hands in the pockets of the fleece-lined denim jacket that he purloined off a hook by the back door.
Elizabeth in a battered peacoat, her head up and a contented smile on her face. The wind blew her hair every which way, but she didn't fuss the way a lot of women would. She hardly seemed to notice.
"I can see why you love this place," Max said after a time, looking around at the gently rolling hills dotted here and there with stands of ancient oak, pecan, walnut and mimosa trees. "This is a beautiful spot."
"Mmm," she agreed absently.
They reached the river and stopped near a ramshackle structure made of hand-hewn logs and corrugated tin. Here the bank dropped off fifteen to twenty feet in a sheer cliff to the muddy waters of the Brazos below.
"That's the cotton gin that Asa built," Elizabeth said, pointing toward the aging log building. "In the old days farmers from miles around brought their cotton here to be ginned and baled and shipped to market.
"In the early 1800s paddle wheelers used to navigate up and down this river, selling goods and picking up crops. The first few years, while the settlers were getting established, their main cash crops were pecans and potash. Later, cotton and indigo and sugarcane products were their moneymakers. In more recent years we've started alternating the crops so as not to deplete the soil.
"Of course, that was long before the government dammed the river upstream near Mineral Wells. When the water level dropped, the big boats could no longer get through. Before that happened the Brazos was a deep, fast-running, clear river. In those days the banks on both sides were lined with mimosa trees along here, many of which survive to this day. That's how the farm came to be called Mimosa Landing."
She pointed downward. "Look down there, and you can see the remains of the old wharf."
Max leaned over and spotted a rickety wooden structure clinging to the steep bank about halfway to the water. "This place, and your family, have quite a history," he commented.
"Yes," she said with quiet pride.
"How many acres do you have all told?"
"A little over three thousand. Great-great-grampa Asa Pierce Stanton homesteaded the original plot of about six hundred acres shortly after he came to Texas with Stephen F. Austin in the early 1800s. Gradually he bought out other settlers up and down the river, people who couldn't make a go of it. By the time of the Texas Revolution against Mexico, he'd more than tripled his original grant.
"When he first arrived he built a two-room log cabin and got this place going, then sent back to Savannah for his sweetheart, Talitha Camille Brown."
Elizabeth walked over to an enormous mimosa tree and stood beneath the spreading limbs. "They were married in the spring of 1830 on this very spot by a roving preacher. The mimosas and wildflowers were in full bloom."
"Really?" Max said, looking around. "I'll bet this is a beautiful spot in the spring."
"Yes, it is," she agreed. Returning to his side, she gazed at the river, her hands tucked into her coat pockets. "From 1833 to April 1836, Asa served in the Texas Army. He was wounded at San Jacinto."
"The last battle in the war?" At Elizabeth's nod Max shook his head. "That's too bad."
"He survived, thank God. For his service, he was awarded an additional thousand acres of rich bottom land adjacent to his property."
Max let out a low whistle. "That's a lot of land. Is it all still intact?"
"Yes. No Stanton has ever sold so much as a teaspoon of this land."
"I guess you wouldn't, either, huh?"
"That's right," she vowed. "Not even if I have to take a job slinging hash at a greasy spoon."
Max almost laughed out loud, but he caught himself in time. She was deadly serious.
Turning his head, Max studied her determined profile. Including marrying me, he thought.
Why that thought bothered him, he didn't understand, but it did.
Without talking, they walked along the river bank for a ways, then turned back. Near the house, Elizabeth pointed out an old log structure. "That's the original cabin that Asa built, where he and Talitha Camille began their marriage. Out back of the cabin are the big cauldrons they used on wash day. In the fall they made soap and candies in them.
"That log building over there straddling the stream is the springhouse. That was the equivalent of a refrigerator in the old days. The flowing water inside keeps the temperature at a steady fifty degrees so the perishables all stay cool."
"What's that over there?" Max asked, pointing to a contraption set in the middle of a foot-deep rutted circle.
"That's the old sugarcane press. It was run by oxen or mule power. See the long bar that sticks out? That was hooked to the animal's harness, and as he walked in a circle, workers fed the sugarcanes into the hopper and the press squeezed out the juice. Years of the animals plodding created that rut in the ground."
"Fascinating," Max murmured, inspecting the machine at closer range.
"And that log structure over there beyond the springhouse is the smokehouse," Elizabeth went on.
"That structure over there must be the carriage house where you have your dance studio."
"Let me guess. Aunt Talitha told you about the dancing?"
"Yeah. I'd like to watch you and Mimi sometime."
Elizabeth started shaking her head before the words were out of his mouth. "Oh, no. The studios are off limits to everyone but us."
"We'll see," Max pronounced, and changed the subject.
Elizabeth gave Max a tour of the inside of both the animal barn and the equipment barn. In the latter Max looked over an enormous machine. "This looks new," he said, running his fingertips along the bright yellow paint. "What is it?"
"It's a combine for harvesting grain. And you're right about it being new. It was delivered just last Monday. Truman can hardly wait to put it to use. I swear, the man loves this machine almost as much as he does his kids," she said, chuckling.
Walking deeper into the barn, she pointed out a cotton picker, a disk, a hay baler and various other pieces of equipment that were foreign to him. Finally she climbed up into the enclosed cab of the biggest tractor that Max had ever seen. "This is another new piece of equipment," she said, bouncing on the seat. "You're seeing firsthand how your money is being spent."
He made a noncommittal sound and climbed up into the cab with her. "It looks like a first-class piece of equipment," he said. "That's good. I believe in buying quality."
"Oh, Truman's going to love you," Elizabeth said with a laugh.
"Oh, yeah? Do you suppose he'll let me drive this baby sometime?"
"I don't know," she teased, slanting him a dubious look. "Truman is very particular about his farm equipment."
"Hmm. I guess I'll have to get on his good side."
"That's no easy feat. A man has to prove himself to Truman, but once he accepts you, you've got a loyal friend for life."
"I kind of guessed that."
Outside the barn, they paused beside a corral to watch a feisty colt kick up his heels and run for the sheer pleasure of it. Elizabeth stepped up on the bottom rail of the wooden fence, bringing herself on eye level with Max.
"I can see why you love it here. I do, as well, but the trips back and forth from Houston are going to eat up
time. Would you object to me having a helipad built here? That way I could switch to a helicopter at the airport and be here in minutes."
"I don't mind. But if I were you I'd get Truman's advice about where to put it."
"Good idea."
"Is Tom licensed to fly a helicopter as well as a jet?"
"No, but I am. I'll fly myself to and from the Houston airport."
"You? But … isn't that dangerous?"
"Relax. I flew helicopters when I was a marine. I've kept my license up to date."
"Okay. If that's what you want to do, go ahead. Just don't expect me to ride in it."
On the way back to the house, Max kept stealing glances at Elizabeth's profile. She was different here. Happier. More alive.
Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her hair mussed by the wind. But she wore contentment like an old soft coat. Her eyes gleamed with it. The hint of a smile around the corners of her mouth gave her a Mona Lisa look—as though she knew some basic truth about the meaning of life.
"You really love it here, don't you?"
"Mmm. I'd rather be here than any place on earth."
"Then why don't you sell the Houston place and live here all the time?"
"Several reasons. For the past few generations of Stantons, family business has required us to spend a lot of time in Houston. Over the years my family's roots have sunk almost as deep there as they are here. We've called the Houston house home number two ever since my great-grandfather's day. Another important point for me is it's next door to Mimi." She stooped and picked a long leaf off a plant and pulled it through her fingers. "And then there's Gladys and Dooley to think about."
Staring down at her delicate profile as they drew near the house, Max realized just how far off the mark his assessment of her had been.
He'd proposed because he'd known that she was in desperate financial straits. At the time he'd thought that her desire to hold on to Mimosa Landing was more a matter of saving face than anything else. He knew—hell, everyone in that part of the state knew—that this farm was and had always been the number-one symbol of her family's wealth and their place in society.
Not once had he doubted that she would accept his proposal. He had been certain that, being born to wealth, when push came to shove, she wouldn't be able to give up her privileged lifestyle and all the things that money could buy.
He'd been wrong. And that bothered him.
He could see by the passion in those blue-green eyes that the money meant little to her. What mattered to Elizabeth was this farm, this land. And the people she loved.
It seemed that, through plain dumb luck, he'd married himself one hell of a woman.
* * *
Eleven
« ^ »
One of the first questions Aunt Talitha always asked whenever she met someone new was, did they play bridge? Not only was she a fanatical player, she felt the game was a social skill everyone should have. To her credit, she restrained herself the day of the wedding when she met Max for the first time. However, she put the question to him the moment that he and Elizabeth returned from their tour of the farm.
"Yes, I play. My parents taught me," he replied. "When you live in oil-field camps all over the world you have to make your own entertainment. I also played quite a bit in college."
"I knew it. I knew it," Talitha said with a gleeful thump of her cane. "Someone as smart as you just had to be a bridge player. It's a game of logic and strategy, a thinking-person's game. You'll be my partner," she informed him. "Elizabeth, dear, break out the cards."
"Are you sure you want to do that?" Max asked. "I haven't played in more than ten years. I'm really rusty."
"Nonsense. It's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn you never forget."
As always, Aunt Talitha was right.
They played until after ten that evening, and Max and Aunt Talitha trounced Elizabeth and Mimi every rubber.
Later, alone in the master bedroom, Elizabeth sat at her dressing table removing her makeup and watching Max in the mirror. "Thank you for indulging my aunt," she said to his reflection. "That was very nice of you."
"No problem." He picked up the shoes and socks he'd just removed and disappeared into the closet, which, like the master bedroom closet in Houston, was bigger than most bedrooms. When he returned to the doorway moments later he had shed his trousers and was working on the buttons on his shirt. "Anyway, I like your aunt. And I enjoyed myself. I'd forgotten how much fun playing bridge could be. These past ten or so years, I haven't taken much time for fun."
"You should. You know what they say about all work and no play. And you're very good at bridge."
"So are you and Mimi. Actually, I was surprised at how good she is. I didn't expect her to even know the game."
"Aunt Talitha taught her to play years ago, just as she taught me. Don't sell Mimi short. Behind all that sultry temptress stuff is a very sharp woman."
"So I'm beginning to realize." He slipped out of his shirt, wadded it up and tossed it into a satin-lined laundry basket just inside the closet. "Besides, I'm no dummy. I figured out within five minutes of meeting your aunt that I needed to keep on her good side if I was going to have a chance of keeping her niece happy."
"True," she admitted, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "But I thank you, anyway."
Max dismissed the subject with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
"I couldn't help but notice that there aren't separate master bedrooms in this house," he commented.
"No. It wasn't necessary to remodel here to suit Edward. He doesn't like the country and seldom came to Mimosa Landing," Elizabeth replied.
Max gave a disgusted snort and mumbled to no one in particular, "Edward is an idiot."
Elizabeth watched his reflection in the mirror as he walked toward her wearing only a minuscule pair of red briefs. Her heart gave a little skip and took off in a drum roll.
Lord, he was a magnificent-looking man, she thought, a bit dazed. Her gaze slid over his broad shoulders, muscled chest and washboard abdomen, the bands of long muscles in his legs that rippled when he walked.
Stopping just behind her, he put his hands on her shoulders and began to massage gently.
Exerting the slightest pressure, he urged her to stand, and when she did he turned her to face him and slipped his arms around her, holding their lower bodies together. The close contact left her in no doubt of his intentions. Neither did the gleam in his eyes.
Turning with her in slow circles, almost like dancing, he maneuvered them across the room toward the bed. She felt the mattress bump against the backs of her knees and let out a small cry as they tumbled together onto the soft surface.
"You want to thank me?" Max whispered against the side of her neck as he explored the soft skin with nibbling kisses.
"Mmm," Elizabeth replied, lost in the delicious sensations that were pulsing through her. Eyes closed, she gave herself up to the feelings that engulfed her.
"Then touch me," he commanded in a hoarse whisper. "I want to feel your hands on me."
She did as he instructed, and was rewarded when he jerked. He seemed to catch his breath, then a hard shudder shook his whole body. "Ah, baby. Yes. Yes."
He returned the favor, and as his hands played over her, she recalled what she'd told Mimi and decided that she'd been wrong. As a lover, on a scale of one to ten, Max was at least a fifteen.
For the remainder of the holiday weekend, each evening after dinner they played bridge. And each evening after playing bridge, Max made love to Elizabeth. Her husband, she began to realize, had a healthy appetite for sex. And he had the skill and finesse in bed to arouse an equal hunger in her.
At first she had felt embarrassed, even a little guilty about responding to him, a man she barely knew, in such an uninhibited and wanton way, and for deriving such intense pleasure from their lovemaking.
After a while, however, she changed her mind and thought, Why not? Why the devil not? Shouldn't she get something out of this
marriage? After all, she'd endured years of lackluster lovemaking with Edward. He had made that trek through the dressing room/closet from his bedroom to hers only occasionally, and even then his lovemaking had been mechanical. So why shouldn't she relax and embrace the intimate side of her marriage to Max?
"I wish you didn't have to go," Elizabeth said as she and Mimi hugged each other goodbye in the foyer on Monday morning.
"I know, but I've got tons of appointments this week. I need a manicure, a pedicure, a facial and a massage. Plus I need to get my roots done in time for the Van Cleaves's party."
"Do you want to ride to the country club with Max and me?"
"No. Dexter Campbell is escorting me. He's fresh off divorce number three and horny as a jackrabbit, so I'll probably have to threaten him with my gun when we get home, but at least I'll have an escort."
Elizabeth laughed. "Call us if he gives you any trouble."
The door opened and Truman stepped back inside, bringing a blast of cold air with him. Without a word and barely a glance toward the two women, the farm manager picked up the last of Mimi's suitcases and carried them out to her car.
Mimi grinned. "Don't you just love a quiet man?"
"Forget it. He's not your type."
Elizabeth and Mimi turned to see Troy step inside the foyer and close the front door behind him. Dressed in a natty suit and carrying a briefcase, he looked all business. His expression, particularly when he acknowledged Elizabeth with a curt, "Good morning" and a nod, was cool.
Never one to back away from a challenge, Mimi cocked one hip, planted her hand on it and looked him up and down. "And just what is my type, Mr. Ellerbee?"
"Rich and old."
Elizabeth sucked in a shocked breath, but Mimi didn't turn a hair. "I see. Well, that just shows how wrong you can be. Thanks to Big Daddy, I have all the money I'll ever need. Next time around I'll be looking for a young man with six-pack abs and the stamina to keep up with me."