Desert Angel (28 page)

On the long ride home the day before, Jim hadn’t had the heart to tell her that the old man was probably dead. He had been relieved to find Hank holding his own, still weak and fighting the beginnings of what would soon become a raging fever. March had immediately wanted to move him into the house, but Jim and Woods had finally convinced her that the old man would be more comfortable in his own bed. The grandeur of the big house would intimidate a man who had spent all of his life in simple surroundings.

He had learned from Woods how she had spent the afternoon and evening, lovingly sponging Hank with cool rags and offering sips of water when he was lucid enough to respond. She had left his side only when it was necessary to tend Jamie.

Finding himself envying the old man, Jim wondered what kind of a fool would want to be gunshot, so that he could be the center of her attention.

After searching through the lower floor of the house, he headed upstairs. He finally found March in Jamie’s room. Standing quietly at the doorway, he watched as she nursed his son, softly murmuring to the child who looked up at her with worshiping eyes.

He had seen that same tenderness time and again. The Indian had been right, he acknowledged. She was a giving woman; giving to others without taking for herself.

Not once in all the months she had lived with him had she asked for anything for herself. She was delighted by anything given to her, whether it was a can of peaches or seeds for her garden. Each gift was so graciously and sincerely received, that the giver was made to feel that he had given her the greatest treasure in the world.

There wasn’t a grasping, greedy bone in her body … except maybe when it came to peaches, Jim thought with a grin. But even then she was careful to share equally.

March had been aware of Jim from the moment he had stopped in the doorway. She still felt a little embarrassed about the way she had thrown herself into his arms yesterday morning, clinging to him as if he’d disappear if she let go. When long minutes had crawled past and he still hadn’t said anything, she raised her head and smiled tentatively.

“Hi.”

Her smile cut into him, and he felt his breath catch. He wished he could take this moment from time and wrap it in cotton batting to protect it forever. He’d treasure it until his dying day, taking it out whenever he needed the loveliness of her smile.

She was a picture created to warm any man’s heart … not to mention the rest of his anatomy. The glow from the lamp on the dresser turned her hair to strands of molten gold. Her dress was open to allow Jamie to nurse, and his small hand pushed against the slope of her breast where her skin had the appearance of rich velvet.

Jim wanted to put his lips to the spot where her exquisite neck met her shoulder. He wanted to taste her skin, to discover if it were indeed as soft as it looked. He found himself envying his infant son’s innocent touch, as much as he had earlier envied Hank.

He had to get away from this picture of innocent seduction, before he did or said something that he would regret. Having been through enough terror in the last twenty-four hours to last her a lifetime, she didn’t need him adding to her unease.

“When you’ve finished, come downstairs for a while.”

March lowered her gaze to the baby in her arms. How much she loved him! She couldn’t love him more if she had given birth to him. He was her child, her son.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just put Jamie to bed and go to bed myself. It’s been a long day.”

“March … I think we need to talk.”

“Please? Not tonight?” The talk would come, as she knew it must, but she needed some time to compose herself, some time to make plans.

Jim studied her sunburned face and saw the signs of exhaustion. “All right, angel. Tomorrow will be fine.”

A tear slid silently down her cheek. Caught in the light of the lamp, it rested briefly on her cheek like a sparkling jewel, before she reached up and wiped it away.

“Oh, angel, don’t cry.” Jim slowly approached her, her tears driving a wedge of need in him to hold her, just hold her and wipe away her newest pain.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was thick with emotion that she tried desperately to hide. “I guess I’m just more tired than I thought.”

Wiping at her wet face, March smiled feebly. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be fine in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.”

“Will you?” he asked softly. “Or will you spend the night remembering?”

Bending, Jim scooped her into his arms, her slight weight nothing to a man who was accustomed to throwing calves who were easily twice her weight. Getting the three of them positioned comfortably in the rocking chair took some doing however, but eventually he was able to set the chair into motion.

At first, startled by his abrupt action, March had to force herself to relax in Jim’s embrace. Leaning her head against his shoulder, she felt the tension slip away with each creaking rock of the chair.

“I never used to cry.” The tears seemed endless as she tried unsuccessfully to stem their flow. “I learned early on that tears were useless.” Her lower lip protruded in an unintentional pout. “It seems like I’m always crying anymore. I hate to cry!”

“I sometimes wish I could,” Jim said quietly.

“Men don’t cry!” So startled by the thought of this big, tough man crying, March leaned forward.

“Exactly. Men don’t cry. But sometimes things get so bottled up inside a body, that I can’t help but wonder if a good crying spell would help.”

Smiling at her amazed expression, Jim pulled her head back against his shoulder. “I can remember one time when I was about six or seven years old and I was crying — can’t remember why — and Mama held me on her lap.” His voice softened as he leaned his head against the back of the chair, his eyes closed. March could tell that it was a good memory for him, the kind all children should have of their parents.

“She smelled of rosewater and bread dough. Her hands were so incredibly soft, except for a scar she had at the base of her little finger. She whispered soft words and hugged me. It was such a reassuring feeling to know that she was there and that she cared.

“I don’t think there is a kid ever born who can’t wait to grow up. They hurry through childhood and then suddenly, for the rest of their life, they’re adults, and they discover that it sure would be nice to go back to those days when nothing was more important than winning the spelling bee or deciding whether to go swimming or fishing or both.”

Jim gently stroked the line of her jaw with the backs of his fingers. “Mamas are special people, there’s no one else in the world quite like them. They spend the best part of their lives raising their children, knowing that the end result will come the day that child leaves them. They scold and soothe, defend and cherish, all the while knowing that someday that child is going to become an adult, and when that happens, they have to let go.

“I miss Mama,” March said so quietly he nearly didn’t hear her. “I wonder if she’s all right, if she’s hungry or cold or sick.” Her voice caught with a smothered sob. “I realized the other day that I could write to her. I was so excited that I looked for a clean piece of paper and an envelope. But then it dawned on me that I couldn’t write to her, because I didn’t know where to send it.

“My mother and brothers and sisters are somewhere in this big country, and I have no idea where.”

“You can still write to her, angel.” Jim smoothed her hair back from her face, enjoying the silky texture of it against his rough fingers. “You can write a little each day, telling her what you’re doing, and then put it away in a safe place until the next time you see her.”

“Do you really think I’ll see her again?” she asked hopefully.

Jim thought of her money-hungry father with distaste, and knew they hadn’t seen the last of the man. “I’ll bet you will. In fact, I’ll bet you a can of peaches that you’ll see her again before Jamie’s first birthday.”

March almost smiled at the mention of peaches. Since the day she had guiltily opened the first can and then admitted to her crime, they had shared many cans of the fruit. It had been the first word she had learned to write, laboriously practicing each letter until she had it perfect.

For the rest of her life, each time she saw a can of peaches, March knew she would always think of Jim and these halcyon days on the Falling Creek Ranch. Even when things were at their worst, she would remember that for a short time she had been a princess in a fairy tale castle with a knight of her very own.

“I won’t be here then,” she stated softly, firmly. Jim heard the resolution in her voice, and knew that he had to tread carefully. “Why? Where will you be?”

“I’m not sure yet, but it won’t be here.” March looked at Jamie as he nursed contentedly. “You were right about mothers. There is nothing they won’t do for their children. This baby is as much mine as the little girl I gave birth to. I won’t do anything that might harm him in any way.”

“I know that, angel. When I came looking for you, I never once feared for his safety. I knew you wouldn’t let any harm come to him.”

“And that’s exactly why I have to leave.”

“You think that leaving him now, when he needs you more than anyone else in the world, is the best for him?”

March hugged Jamie tightly. “I have to go.”

“Why, angel? Make me understand what is chasing you away.”

“I think there’s something about me that men recognize.” She hesitated, searching for the words that would explain. “Both Fred and that cowhand thought that I was an easy woman. They took one look at me and decided I was the kind of woman who should be working at the Golden Nugget.

“Maybe I am a whore, and just don’t know it yet. I don’t guess any woman just wakes up one morning and realizes that she’s a bad woman. I figure that’s something that takes some time to accept. I’m not sure what I am, but whatever it is, I know that I’m not fit to be this child’s mother.

“He can’t grow up hearing stories about me. It would be better for him, if I’m not a part of his life.”

“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,” Jim replied with derision. “I don’t know of anyone more fit to be this boy’s mother. You’re everything a mother should be. You’re kind and gentle and loving. What more could a child want?”

“A mother who isn’t a whore.”

Fighting his own temper, Jim looked down at his son. He realized that Jamie had fallen asleep, and March’s nipple had fallen from his mouth. It was cherry red and swollen, and Jim wanted to take it into his own mouth with a need that was overwhelming.

He couldn’t let March know of his desire, for fear that she would equate him with Fred. Which would, of course, confirm her own low opinion of herself. She would think that he wanted the same thing from her that Fred had wanted.

And he did, Jim acknowledged as he tore his hungry gaze away from her breast. But he wanted more, so much more, than just the pleasure of her body.

Oh, he badly wanted her in his bed and the freedom to touch her in all the private places reserved for lovers. But he also wanted her gentleness, her caring. He wanted to know that she waited at home for him, when he came in from the range or just from the barn.

Having her body wasn’t enough for him. He also had to have everything else that made March the kind of woman she was.

He figured he was stuck between a bull and a cactus; either way he turned he was destined to get jabbed. If he convinced March that she wasn’t a loose woman and then approached her as a lover, she’d think he lied. If he tried to convince her that love shared freely was a gift of God, she’d think of the only examples she had seen, her parents, and again accuse him of lying.

The cactus or the bull? Which pain was less, which more quickly healed?

March nestled in Jim’s arms, secure in his embrace. With his fingers tangled in her hair, she could have purred at his gentle touch. She unknowingly twisted her head so that he could reach the back of her neck and sighed at his exploration, her eyes closing in momentary contentment.

It felt so good, so right, to have him touch her, to learn that his hands could be so gentle and tender. That those same hands were capable of an equally terrifying strength gave her a feeling of security rather than fear.

It was a good feeling, a wonderful feeling, to know that he would protect her. It would be as hard to walk away from that security, as it would be to leave Jamie.

She felt greedy admitting that even to herself. There could be no comparison between her need for security and Jamie’s need for a respectable mother. She was an adult, fully capable of taking care of herself. He was just a tiny baby, about as helpless as anything on earth.

She wasn’t really his mother, she reminded herself. He’d had a mother, one who had died giving him life. She had been hired to take care of him, and was paid a good wage for her services. But in her mind, she had become his mother the first time he drew nourishment from her body.

Stroking Jamie’s soft cheek, March thought of Melanie. “How sad that she never held her own child,” March murmured, not really meaning to speak her thoughts aloud.

“Who?”

“Melanie.”

“She didn’t want him,” Jim said harshly. “She didn’t want him or me.”

“What? You must be mistaken.” She clutched Jamie more tightly to her, unknowingly relieving Jim of the sight of her swollen nipple.