Love's Haven (11 page)

Opening a few plastic-lidded boxes, he located some cheese, chicken breasts and carrots. He set them on the counter and pondered the usual absence of mayonnaise in
the house. Pierre disliked store-bought mayonnaise even though Brock had complained that it was hard to make a decent sandwich without the stuff.

As usual, butter would have to do. There was never any sliced white bread, either, but Pierre’s famous rolls usually could be found in the pantry.

Brock was crossing the kitchen toward the smaller room when he spotted a shadow moving slowly across the courtyard outside. He stopped in his tracks and studied the ephemeral shape.

Blinking, he wondered if he had imagined the movement. Two strides took him to the window. He leaned across the sink and peered into the darkness. In the moonless night, a shrouded, bulky figure vanished behind a thicket of shrubbery.

Brock frowned. In all his years on the ranch, he’d never had a thief. But everyone who worked for him knew payday was getting close, and Christmas bonuses already were stashed in the house’s safe. Any familiarity with Brock’s habits would tell a potential burglar that the master of the house was often away and inner doors were never locked. The courtyard wall was an easy climb. Too easy.

Brock slipped down the length of the counter and opened a cabinet door. Sliding across the top shelf, his fingers found the cool, slick steel of a pistol. He brought the weapon to chest level and checked the chamber. Loaded.

His heart thudding in his chest, he snagged a sheepskin coat from the hook by the door and pulled it on. Gun in one hand, he turned the doorknob with the other. The hinges barely creaked as he eased the door open. Hugging the wall, Brock edged out into the darkness.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word,” Mara’s voice sang softly, “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”

Great, Brock thought. His thief was a tired mother with a fussy baby. He let out his breath as Mara emerged along
the starlit path, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders and a whimpering Abby nestled in her arms.

“And if that mockingbird won’t sing,” she went on, her voice a little quivery, “Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.”

She strolled past Brock, unaware that he stood a few steps away in the shadows, his gun now in his coat pocket and his eyes following her. He could see the round, pale curve of Abby’s head tucked in the crook of her mother’s elbow. How long had it been since he’d laid eyes on the baby? Mara had kept her daughter away from him ever since they’d come out to the ranch. Brock tried to swallow the ache that tightened in his throat as he recalled the moment the doctor had placed the tiny bundle in his arms.

Two weeks ago, he’d have done anything for Abby. Now he could hardly remember how she looked. In the hospital, he had watched the baby being carried in and out through Mara’s door. Half the time, he had wheeled her bassinet down the hall himself. As she lay in the small plastic cart, he had studied Abby’s petal-pink skin and wispy eyelashes. He had brushed a fingertip over her rosebud mouth. But once inside his own home, Abby had been kept from him. She was Mara’s daughter. Todd’s baby.

As Mara hummed her way around the courtyard, Brock gritted his teeth. In spite of his good intentions, had he made a terrible mistake bringing the two of them into his house? Had he given up what little pleasure he had in life for a woman who was bitter and unforgiving? If it weren’t for Todd, he never would have married someone like Mara. He never would have married at all. Period.

Did he resent Todd? Maybe. But how could he be angry at a man for dying?

Once again, the memory of that afternoon on the cliffs at Hueco Tanks clicked on in Brock’s mind. Though he
knew he had done all he could to save his friend’s life, he blamed himself as much as Mara did. Todd had never been the natural athlete Brock was, and he had neither studied as much about rock-climbing nor practiced as often as his friend. Todd had trusted Brock to keep him safe on the cliffs—and, as always, Brock had trusted himself. But Brock had failed. Todd was dead…and the angry Mara would make him pay any way she could.

“And if that billy goat won’t…” she sang tiredly, pausing to search for the words to the lullaby. “And if that billy goat won’t…eat, Mama’s gonna buy you a…piece of meat.”

She was making up the song. The edges of her nubby pink robe drifted around her slippered feet as she padded back and forth, back and forth, swaying Abby to the rhythm of her footsteps. Her breath made little puffs of steam in the crisp night air.

“And if that piece of meat won’t…cook,” she went on in a low, almost tuneless voice, “Mama’s gonna buy you a crochet hook. And if that crochet hook…gets bent, Mama’s gonna buy you a canvas tent.”

At the inane words to her song, Brock fought the grin that tickled the corners of his mouth. He definitely resented Mara and her self-righteous intolerance, but at the same time he was drawn to her. He knew he needed her forgiveness; he sensed that he needed more than that from this woman who somehow had become his wife.

“And if that canvas tent falls down, Mama’s gonna buy you a wedding gown.” She was over by the swimming pool now, walking past the empty, covered hole. Rocking Abby, she gazed into her baby’s face as she sang.

What did Brock truly want from Mara? Acceptance? Peace? At this point he would gladly accept the barest smile.

“And if that wedding gown…” Mara stopped singing,
stopped walking, stopped rocking. Her voice trembled as she went on. “If that wedding gown falls apart, Mama’s gonna mend your broken heart. And if your broken heart won’t…stop hurting…”

Brock watched her from a distance. She stood like a statue at the edge of the pool. The baby had calmed down, and Mara let out a deep, lingering breath.

“Oh, Abby,” she said softly.

Brock recognized the tone in her voice. She had said the same thing to him.
Oh, Brock.
But what did Mara want? What could he give her? Never in his life had he felt such a tangle of emotions.

“Let’s go back inside,” she said softly.

She started toward her room, and Brock stepped out from the wall. In less than a minute, Mara would be gone. He wouldn’t see Abby again for days, maybe weeks. Hard telling when he would even catch a glimpse of Mara. But he had to let her go. He had no right to her.

Just as Mara pushed open her door, Abby let out a loud wail.

“Oh, no.” Mara stopped and leaned her head against the door frame. “Not again, Abby. Please, I’m so…so tired.”

She clutched the sobbing baby to her breast and lifted her eyes to the sky. Clearly frustrated and teetering at the edge of exhaustion, she swallowed back tears. Brock studied her, his own impulse to help manacled and impotent. With Abby howling at the top of her tiny lungs, Mara turned into the darkness of her suite and shut the door behind her.

Brock leaned back against the chilly wall and listened to the sounds of a baby crying and a mother attempting to sing once again. In the darkness, his stomach grumbled loudly, and he recalled the makings of his chicken dinner spread out on the kitchen table. He had been on his way to fetch a roll. Definitely, he was hungry. Too hungry to be walking
across the courtyard toward Mara’s door. He should head for the kitchen, eat his sandwich, take his shower. He sure shouldn’t knock on her door.

“Brock?” Still holding Abby, Mara peered through the slit between the open door and the frame. “Is that you?”

“I
heard the baby,” Brock said. He couldn’t believe what he had just done. Two minutes ago, he had been hungry and tired. Two minutes ago, he had been determined to stay as far from Mara as possible. Now he was struggling to keep from lifting her into his arms and comforting her.

“Is Abby okay?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Mara said over Abby’s wails. Brock could barely hear her. “I can’t get her to sleep.”

“Maybe she’s hungry.”

“No, it’s not that. I just nursed her. I’ve changed her diaper, burped her, checked her temperature, everything I can think of. I can’t understand why she won’t sleep.”

They both looked down at the subject herself. The baby’s tiny fists pumped the air, now and then batting her mother. Her little feet churned inside the white crocheted blanket. Cheeks bright red, her head was thrown back against Mara’s arm as though she desperately wanted to escape but couldn’t.

“She’s raising quite a ruckus,” Brock said.

“What?” Mara asked above the cries.

“She’s loud.”

The gray-green eyes lifted to his face, and Brock could
see they were awash in tears. “I’m sorry she bothered you. I’d better try rocking her again.”

Mara turned to go, but Brock touched her arm. “Let me.”

Before he had thought through a plan of action and its consequences, he found himself ushering Mara back into the sitting room that was a part of her suite, switching on a low lamp and guiding her onto a nearby recliner. Then he took the squalling bundle from her arms and gave her a valiant grin.

“You get some rest.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You need it.”

Spotting the rocker, Brock headed for it. Mara must have moved the chair from the nursery into this small living area so she could enjoy the sunny view as she rocked Abby. The two of them spent so many hours together, while he saw little or nothing of either one.

Brock could hardly believe he was actually holding this baby who had changed his life so dramatically. In his arms, Abby was almost weightless, her small, rounded body nestling easily against the soft contours of his sheepskin coat. Weightless, maybe, but noisy as all get-out. The kid could raise the rafters.

Brock glanced at Mara, who had collapsed onto the recliner in a heap, then he shrugged out of his jacket and kicked off his dusty boots. Gathering the baby closer to him, he eased his large frame down into the chair. Abby was a mess of rumpled blankets and twisted nightgown, so he peeled her out of everything that would come off. Then he laid her against his chest, pressed her little round head against the warmth of his body, and began to rock gently.

“Now then, no need to cry,” he murmured. As he rocked, Brock leaned his head back against the chair and
shut his eyes. Abby’s wails gradually mellowed into whimpers. Her tiny fingers clutched the fabric of his thermal undershirt, and her nose nestled against his chest. She sure was little. He figured he could easily hold her in one hand.

Lowering his head, he drank in the scent of her downy hair. Baby shampoo and talcum powder. Something tugged at his heart, and he swallowed against the tide of emotion. He brushed the baby’s forehead with his lips and let out a deep breath.

“You planning to sleep sometime tonight, girl?” he whispered. “Don’t you know you’ve about worn your mama plumb out? I was on my way for a sandwich and a warm shower, myself. But you decide to set up a holler and everybody comes running, don’t they?”

He studied the diminutive face. Abby was perfect. From her soft eyes to her small nose to her bowed lips, she was the image of her beautiful mother. Even her ears fit against her head like tiny seashells. Again, he kissed her, and this time her fussy cries wound down into a sigh. “This is what we call nighttime, Abby,” he murmured against her shoulder. “It’s dark outside the window, see? The stars are hanging in the sky. The moon’s tucked away. Even the coyotes have gone to bed. Sleep now, baby. That’s my girl.”

As Abby fell silent, Brock lifted his feet onto the footrest of Mara’s recliner and stretched out his long, tired legs. The creak of the rocker was replaced by the whisper of winter wind against the window pane. In the quiet, Brock let his eyes drift shut and his cheek settle against the top of the baby’s head.

“And if your broken heart’s too deep,” Mara’s soft voice filtered through the cobwebs of sleep gathering in his brain, “Papa’s gonna come and rock you to sleep.”

Brock opened his eyes. From the recliner, Mara was
watching him. She lifted her bare foot and touched the tip of her toe to the end of his sock.

“And if my baby girl goes to sleep,” she murmured, “I think she might have found her a man to keep.”

She broke into a smile that lit the room like sunrise on a summer morning. Brock stared back at her and puzzled over the words she had sung.

“Mara,” he whispered. “What do you—”

“Shh.” She held one finger to her lips and glanced at Abby. “Good night, Brock.”

When Mara opened her eyes the next morning, she realized it was the first time since they’d left the hospital that she had not awakened to the sound of a baby. In fact, there was no sound at all in the room, nothing but the chatter of birds and the rustle of bare branches in the courtyard outside. Sunshine lay like a pool of melted butter on the tile floor. A slice of cloudless blue sky peeped through the open curtains. An old, beat-up sheepskin jacket hung over the arm of the empty rocker.

Empty! Mara sat up on the recliner where she had spent the night. Where was Abby? Where was Brock? She swung her legs to the floor and sat for a minute, breathing hard. Oh, no—Abby hadn’t nursed since midnight!

Mara retied the belt of her chenille robe as she padded across the floor. She jerked open the door to the nursery and hurried to the crib. Empty. Brushing a hand over her forehead, she tried to think. It had been a difficult night—Abby restless and whiny, Mara tired and sore—until Brock had showed up at their door.

The last thing Mara had seen before falling into an exhausted sleep was her daughter snuggled in Brock’s arms. Brock must have her now. Mara walked down the hall, her throat tightening with worry. Brock had witnessed Abby’s birth, but he knew nothing about babies. He’d held Abby
only once or twice. What if he dropped her? What if he spilled something on her? What if he laid her down on a couch or a kitchen counter and she rolled off? If she landed on the hard tile floor—

“Once you get your teeth,” Brock’s distinctively deep voice said from the kitchen, “you’ll be eating eggs and bacon for breakfast.”

Mara came to a sudden stop in the doorway. With Abby neatly tucked like a football in one arm, Brock was stirring a batch of scrambled eggs with his free hand.

“Now, don’t frown at me, girl,” he said to the baby. Oblivious to the observing woman, he poured the egg mixture into a hot skillet on the stove and returned his attention to Abby. “You can have some milk, too, when you get bigger. But you’ll drink it out of a cup, and it’ll be cow’s milk. Cows are what we do here on the ranch, so you’ll have to learn to drink big glasses of milk and chow down on prime rib. Mmm-mmm. Good stuff. That is, if we can get Pierre to leave us alone in the kitchen for a few hours so we can cook together.”

Mara stared at the broad expanse of Brock’s chest and Abby’s pink cheek snuggled comfortably against his thermal undershirt. As he tended to his breakfast, the man looked as though he’d spent his whole life with a baby wedged in the crook of his arm. One-handed, he salted and peppered his steaming eggs. He stepped to the refrigerator and took out two jars of jelly. Next he opened the oven door and set a couple of croissants onto the rack.

“You’ll have to get used to French grub,” he said to the baby. “But when you get really hungry, we’ll sneak out to the bunkhouse and chow down with the men.”

“Wuh,” Abby said.

“I know just what you mean,” Brock concurred. “Let me tell you about my foreman, Pedro Chavez. Now, he can cook enchiladas like nobody’s business. Brings tor
tillas from home that his wife makes on weekends. And Nick Jefferson is our steak man. Loads us down with T-bones, baked beans and biscuits.”

From the open doorway, Mara watched as Brock set a plate, silverware and napkin on the kitchen work table. Humming softly, he got a mug from the shelf.

“You know, for such a pretty little girl, you’re smelling mighty whiffy,” he told Abby as he walked toward the coffeemaker. “I reckon you may be due for a new diaper.”

“Uh-behhh,” Abby burbled.

“I’ll tell you what. If you’ll hang on till after breakfast, I’ll do what I can to clean you up. Maybe between the two of us we can figure out what it is your mama does to keep you feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

He reached for the coffeepot and held it over the mug, which sat on the counter only an inch from Abby’s tiny bare leg. As the steaming black liquid splashed into the cup, Mara gasped. Brock swung around.

“Whoa. You just about scared me and Abby out of our britches. ’Course, Abby needs to change her britches anyhow.” He gave her a broad grin. “Coffee?”

“I was afraid you might spill it.” Mara shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her robe as she walked toward Brock. “I’d love some. But let me pour.”

“Don’t trust me?”

“Not too much.” She took down another mug and filled them both with hot black coffee. “But more today than I did yesterday.”

“Keep that up and you might start to like me.”

“I like what you’ve done for us.” She set the mugs on the table and leaned toward him. “Brock, thank you for helping me last night. I haven’t slept that many hours in a row since Abby was born.”

“You were wrung out. I tell you what,” he said, studying the baby in his arms, “I never knew someone who weighed
less than ten pounds could wiggle like a rattler on a hot skillet, raise the roof with her hollering and odor up an entire kitchen.”

Mara had to laugh. “I’d better change her.”

“I thought I’d give it a shot, but I wasn’t sure what kind of a surprise I’d find when I opened the package.”

“Not a pretty one, I can promise you that.”

He held Abby at arms’ length and peered into her tiny face. “You leak, you drool, you squall, you mess your britches and you keep people awake half the night. What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”

“Bah,” Abby gurgled.

Brock laughed out loud. Hugging her close, he planted a kiss on top of her head. “Yeah, you’d steal my heart, wouldn’t you? Go on, now, your mama’s waiting.”

He placed the damp little bundle in Mara’s arms. “When you’re done, come back and have some breakfast,” he said. “Pierre’s off on Sunday, so we’re on our own.”

Mara snuggled her daughter, aware of the tiny lips rooting against her neck. “Abby’s hungry, too. You go ahead with your breakfast. I’ll nurse her, and then I’ll fix something later.”

“No point in that.” He grabbed a chair and pulled it back from the table. “Feed her in here. Might as well all eat together.”

Mara stared at him as he sat down, leaned back in his chair and cocked his hands behind his head. His smile was as broad as all New Mexico. “I was there when they showed you how, remember?” he said. “Go on, now. I’ll keep the eggs warm.”

Carrying her fragrant little bundle, Mara strolled down the hall. Abby whimpered, as if dismayed at the feel of chenille robe against her cheek instead of a male chest. Mara frowned.

“You like him, don’t you?” she whispered. “Scamp. I heard you cooing and gurgling over that man. You just wrapped him right around your little finger.”

Mara carried Abby into the nursery and quickly changed her diaper. A strange sense of satisfaction came over her as she realized how easy the task had become. She could bathe, diaper, nurse, rock, burp and sing lullabies like a pro. In fact, in the last couple of weeks she had become a fairly competent mother.

“So, the cowboy wants to have breakfast with you, does he?” she said, hefting Abby in her arms. “All right then. Here we go.”

As Mara walked toward the dining room, she thought of the man who waited there. She recalled Rosa Maria’s statement about Brock.
After spending time with your husband,
she had told Mara,
Mr. Barnett always relaxed. He would be happy. He would lean back in his chair and put his feet on the table.

Relaxed. Happy. This was a man she could tolerate a lot better than the driven perfectionist she had always known. What had calmed Brock? Was it Sunday, a quiet house and a sunny December morning? Was it Abby and her soothing, snuggling acceptance? Or did Mara herself have something to do with mellowing the man? For some odd reason, she hoped she had played a part.

As she stepped into the kitchen, Mara again knew a sense of betrayal. The picture was all wrong. It should be Todd, his wife and their baby gathering in the little apartment kitchen. They should sit around their dinette, talking and laughing in the comfortable way they had together. A family.

She walked toward Brock, suddenly overwhelmed with the guile in her heart. How could she actually look forward to spending time with this man? How could it be fair that he and not Todd held Abby and rocked her to sleep? Worst
of all…how could Mara be feeling the wayward emotions she felt every time she was in Brock’s presence?

All the hours she had invested in trying to pray away her guilt—repent of her reckless marriage and make atonement to God—and here she was actually enjoying Brock Barnett. She had begged for the Lord to show her His will and to make something good of the knotted mess she was laying at His feet. Everything in her brain pointed her away from Brock. But her heart…oh, it was willful…

“Hey there,” Brock said, looking up at her. In worn and slightly wrinkled jeans, his long legs stretched across the expanse from chair to table. His feet were comfortably crossed at the ankles and propped on the table.

“You’ll never guess what just skedaddled past the window there,” he said.

Uncomfortable at being drawn into an easy banter with him, Mara settled on the edge of her chair. She tucked Abby close and fought the swirl of tingles that swept down her spine as she looked into Brock’s brown eyes.