Love's Haven (12 page)

“A roadrunner,” he said. “A chaparral bird. Ran right through the courtyard. Never seen one this close to the house.”

Tearing her focus from his face, Mara searched the walled enclosure for the fabled bird, but it had vanished. “Maybe it was hungry.”

“I don’t know about the roadrunner, but I know about me.” Brock set his feet on the floor, stood and headed for the stove. In moments, he had served up two plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, warm croissants, farm butter and jelly. He refilled Mara’s coffee mug.

As he sat down and reached for the pepper grinder, Mara draped a cloth diaper over her shoulder to cover Abby’s head. Beneath it, she pushed back her robe and Abby quickly began to nurse.

At the sound of the baby’s loud, satisfied gulps, Mara
flushed a bright pink as she lifted her eyes to Brock. He was grinning. “Reckon we can pray over that little barracuda?” he asked, holding out a hand toward Mara.

“Oh, Brock, really?”

“I decided you had a point about praying before meals, Mara. I wasn’t brought up in the church, and I’m not too sure about my doctrines and theologies, but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for what I’ve been given.”

Mara shut her eyes for a moment, elated at the promise that somehow God was touching Brock’s life…and stricken with guilt at her eagerness to take his hand. It wouldn’t be right to feel euphoric about any man so soon after her husband’s death. It was doubly wrong to be melting inside over Brock Barnett. He had been Todd’s best friend. That made her attraction to him seem so wrong. And worse, Brock was the one who had led Todd up those cliffs.

She planted her hand firmly in her lap and twisted her wedding band around and around. “Brock, I don’t think—”

“There’s been an empty place inside me, Mara,” he said, his hand still outstretched. “I got to thinking about it after the crowd from Las Cruces dropped by.”

“Empty?”

“There’s a hollowness that’s built into everybody. It’s uncomfortable, so you try to fill it up. I used to think I could fix things by partying, until I realized what a waste of time that is. Then I started trying to work it out of my system by putting in eighteen-hour days on the ranch. That’s not going too well, either. Then you mentioned how you and Todd used to pray together, and I remembered that about him. After he became a Christian, Todd had a peace I sure envied.”

Mara looked down at Abby and let out a breath. Maybe it wasn’t as wrong as she thought to be friends with the same man her husband had loved so deeply. “Todd’s faith
filled in the hollowness in his life,” she acknowledged. “He had a deep, personal relationship with Jesus.”

Brock nodded. “And with you, Mara.”

She searched his eyes, trying to read the message in their brown depths. Did he understand what she felt? Did he want the same things she was beginning to want? Slowly she unknotted her fist and stretched out her hand. Brock’s warm fingers closed around hers, covering the gold band she wore. He cleared his throat, and she gave his hand a slight squeeze.

“Dear God,” Mara said softly, “thank you for a good night’s sleep. Please bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies… Thank you for Abby and…and for Brock…and teach me how to forgive. In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.”

“Amen.” Brock glanced at her. Continuing to hold her hand, he picked up his fork. “Forgiveness. That’s hard work.”

Realizing she was immobilized—one arm wrapped around Abby and her free hand clasped firmly in Brock’s—Mara watched him chew a bite of breakfast. At the sight, tenderness filled her heart, and she went completely helpless inside.

“I don’t know how to forgive,” he said. “Never have figured it out in all these years.”

Mara studied their clasped hands, aware that his fingers were tanned and hard against her soft pale skin. She remembered how their fingers had been entwined during her labor, and how she had stared at them, loving them. She wanted his hand to touch more than her fingers. More than her arm. All he had done in the past two weeks was grab her, shake her, propel her here or there. But she craved those brown hands on her neck, rubbing her shoulders, massaging her back.

Oh, no. This was not good.

“My mom, for instance.” Brock pointed his fork out the window, as though his mother were standing in the
courtyard. “She left my dad when I was a little boy. Just up and headed East. It was like I’d never been born. I watch you and Abby, and I wonder how she could do that to me. How do you forgive that?”

Mara focused on the man who was speaking and realized how poorly she had been concentrating on his words. He had been baring his soul in a completely un-characteristic flow of confession.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I haven’t had much to forgive in my life.”

“Until recently.”

She looked down at her plate. “It is hard to let go of things that are embedded so deeply inside. Things that have changed your life.”

“If forgiving is the same thing as forgetting, I can’t do it. My dad wasn’t a whole lot better. He did stay in my life, but I might as well have been invisible around the house. For most of my life, I’ve treated people the way he treated me. I see most folks as pesky flies buzzing around my head. You tolerate them as long as you can, then swat them back if they get too close.”

“You never treated Todd that way.”

“Todd.” Brock took a sip of coffee. “He was different.”

Mara studied her plate, unwilling to remove her hand from Brock’s grasp. “Todd would have wanted me to forgive you,” she whispered.

His eyes darted to hers. “Do you think so?”

“I know so. But I don’t know how.”

“You could start by letting me tell you what happened on the cliffs.”

She shrugged away from the offer, unable and unwilling to return to that place of pain. “It doesn’t matter what happened up there,” she told him. “What I can’t seem to forgive is the fact that you asked him to go.”

“And I was responsible for him.”

Mara bit her lower lip. “Please, Brock, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right.”

“Does it really matter if I never completely get past this?” She asked the question, knowing the answer but hoping he might somehow excuse her hardheartedness. And yet, why couldn’t she let go of this thing that felt like a fishhook she had swallowed? Did she actually cherish her hurt? Was she even now nurturing her own pain?

“Sure it matters that you get past this.” Brock set his mug on the table and leaned toward her. “If Todd would want you to forgive me, then it matters. You owe that to his memory. Plus, it matters to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to see you turn bitter. Bitterness will eat you up, Mara. It’ll make you hard and gruff and cold. It’ll turn people away. It’ll hurt Abby and everyone you let get close to you. Look at me. Hey, am I the kind of warm, loving guy a woman would want to spend the rest of her life with? Am I your basic family man—a wife, two kids and a dog? The truth is, you don’t hold on to bitterness. It holds on to you.”

Mara studied the cynical tilt to Brock’s mouth and realized how deeply his parents’ rejection had cut him. It was his own swallowed fishhook. Had he become too hard to give and receive love? She ran her eyes down his shoulders and gazed at his chest for a minute. Did it matter what kind of man he really was, when he could have anything he wanted? When he could have Mara herself…if she weren’t careful.

Yes, it did matter.

“I watched you with Abby this morning,” she said, absently rubbing her thumb against the side of his finger. “You may be hurt and you may be bitter, Brock, but you’re not cold. You loved Todd. Your household staff adores
you. And you cooked breakfast with my daughter in your arms. Maybe you are a family man by nature.”

His fingers tightened on hers as he struggled to control an emotion she had never seen in his eyes. He swallowed hard. “You suppose?”

“Well, why not?”

He studied her plate for a minute. “You’re not eating.”

“I can’t,” she replied, nodding toward their clenched hands.

“Great.” He pulled his hand away, swept up her plate and strode to the microwave oven. “I’ll zap these eggs for you. They aren’t half bad. Then I need to check on that cow. What would you say to a drive around the ranch?”

Mara glanced at him. He was studiously watching the plate revolve in the oven. She wasn’t sure why he had opened up to her. But she was intrigued.

“Can I bring Abby?” she asked.

He turned, and the smile on his face warmed her soul. “You bet.”

T
he ranch on the western plains beneath the San Andres Mountains welcomed Mara like the mother she had never known. As Brock’s pickup sped down long, dusty roads, she felt warm arms enfold her. Dry grass, old mesquite and gnarled juniper decorated an arid landscape that felt more like home to her than any house she had lived in. The nip of crisp mountain breeze against her cheeks nurtured her as profoundly as did the up-and-down warble of meadowlarks and the coo of doves. Yuccas pointed toward the turquoise sky and the pale yellow sun.

Mara gazed at her own child, tucked safely in the car seat, eyes closed in peaceful slumber. No bigger than a pearl, Abby’s nose drank in the clean New Mexico air as her tiny chest rose and fell. Layered beneath a pile of flannel blankets, quilts and crocheted afghans, her infant tummy was warmly filled with nourishing mother’s milk. Little hands, curled like miniature sweet rolls, were nestled against her chin. A few wisps of hair as pale and soft as corn silk escaped her white knitted cap.

How could this child be so new, so small, and yet so essential? Mara could no longer remember life without Abby, nor could she imagine it. Her thoughts were
consumed with images, plans and dreams for her baby. Her arms were rarely empty. Even her body was so connected with the child that their rhythms of sleeping and eating had meshed. Without Abby, what would Mara do?

Swallowing back tears of love mingled with fear, she stroked her daughter’s round cheek. What would Abby do without her mother? If Mara were to die, as Todd had died—as Mara’s own parents had died—what would become of this baby?

Would she be pushed into a government-run system as Mara had been? Would she be passed from foster home to foster home where it was so difficult to form personal bonds? Would she struggle the rest of her life with a fear of abandonment and a reluctance to entrust her heart to anyone?

Nearly overwhelmed with her own imaginings, Mara lifted her eyes to the man who sat beside her. The cause of her pain…and her rescuer. She disliked, resented and blamed Brock for the terrible turn her life had taken. She reminded herself that she belonged to Abby and to Todd. And she always would.

Yet how could she sever the ties that kept drawing her closer and closer to Brock? Black hair ruffling away from his forehead in the breeze from the open window, he stared evenly ahead at the dirt road. With one strong, sunbaked hand he worked the gearshift, with the other he steadied the jerky steering wheel. His deep-set brown eyes surveyed the landscape, back and forth, up and down. His domain.

“Glad we checked on that cow this morning,” he said, unaware of Mara’s turmoil. “She’s looking as good as new. The trick will be to keep her out of the weeds.” He drove on, speaking almost as if to himself. “I’ve got a new Simmental bull over here in this pasture. He ought to make a fine breeder come spring. The Simmental is a Swiss breed, you know. Big, sturdy animals. Good beef and milk.
Usually they’re either a buff color or a dull red and white. Whoa, there he is.”

Brock swung the pickup off the road, eased it across the borrow ditch and pulled up alongside a fenced pasture. In the distance, a lone animal lifted its head to stare. For a moment, the bull studied the intruding vehicle, then it returned to the monotonous task of grazing the stubbly winter range. Brock cut the engine and stretched his arm along the back of the seat.

“You wouldn’t think a bull would be much to look at,” he commented, “but sometimes I drive out here and just stare at that young fellow. He’s got the future of this place locked up inside him. Of course, he doesn’t know that. Doesn’t have a clue. It’s up to me to see that he does his job.”

It was the first note of genuine pride Mara had ever heard in Brock’s voice, and it told her how much this land meant to him. He did care about something more than himself, she realized. It was a side of the man Mara had never seen, and she was intrigued in spite of herself. Throughout her marriage to Todd, Mara had disparaged Brock’s reckless, foolhardy adventuring. Though she respected their deep friendship, she had never warmed to Brock. He was careless with money and people, she warned her husband. But Todd, as always, rose to his best friend’s defense.

Now, Mara realized Brock’s eyes—as soft as brown molasses—had moved from his bull to the woman beside him. When she glanced across at him, she felt herself melt inside like thick, creamy butter in the summer heat. Half afraid she might slide right into his gaze, she struggled to pull away. It was useless. Her heartbeat slowed to a dull, lopsided thudding, her breath hung in her throat.

“I guess you’re not too interested in cows, are you?” he asked in a low voice.

She watched his mouth form the words, moving over every syllable in a mesmerizing dance. “I don’t know much about cows,” she whispered.

“I guess not.” Brock ran his finger over the ribbed shoulder of her blue sweater.

She knew he could sense her misgivings. Perhaps he even felt how the touch of his hand disturbed her. Between them lay her baby and all the built-up anger, resentment and sorrow that could possibly separate two people. Brock had given up his friends, his fun and certainly his money for Abby, and Mara realized that his resentment was well-founded. As was hers.

So why did she read a sense of longing in those mysterious eyes of his? Were they reflecting her own desires? Was it possible he felt as confused and torn about her as she felt about him?

She wished Brock would start the car again. This was unbearable. Even as she struggled with her grief over the loss of her husband, Mara realized she was capable of dealing his memory the ultimate treachery. She wanted desperately to know the intimate touch of his betrayer.

Fighting human desire, she prayed for strength. This couldn’t be God’s will. Not this. She had jumped into the marriage out of fear. She had married a man of little faith and almost no Christian practice. It was all a huge error on her part. A sin. She had repented, given it to God, and asked Him to transform it into something that would glorify Him. How could sitting here feeling overwhelming carnal need for Brock Barnett be anything close to what God intended? She felt weak. Panicky. And so confused.

But she had to say something.

“I suppose I could be interested in cows,” she managed to babble, “if I knew more about them.”

“They’re not as complicated as some animals. They’re
pretty basic. As long as their needs are met, they mostly do all right.”

His focus trailed down her cheek to her neck. She gripped the edges of the seat. What was he looking at? Her hair? Soft and slightly out of control after her morning shower, it lay scattered across her shoulders—her normal barely-brushed style. He picked up a strand and fingered the wispy ends.

“Is it working out for you two to live here, Mara?” he asked. “Well enough to stay awhile?”

“For the most part,” she said, incapable of lifting her eyes to meet his. “As for staying, that depends.”

“On what?”

“Lots of things.” She tried to keep breathing steadily as he wound her hair around his finger. The lock shortened and grew tighter. His finger touched the tip of her earlobe. She gave a silent start, then slowly let out her breath. “I have to do what’s right for Abby.”

“What about you, Mara? Seems to me if you’re happy, she’ll be happy, too.”

“I’m not sure I can be happy here.”

“Too boring?”

“I found your library. I’m not bored.”

“Neither am I.”

She glanced up, and he captured her eyes. In his own, she read what she feared the most. Desire. But surely he could see the uncertainty and dismay in her face. Surely he knew she couldn’t respond. She wouldn’t. Yet, she wasn’t pushing him away either.

“It’s difficult to think about Abby’s future,” she murmured, fighting to keep her voice even. “Or mine. I know I can’t allow us to live on your goodwill forever.”

“Why not?”

“I need something of my own. Something to do.”

She sucked in a breath as his finger traced the outer
edge of her ear. If she didn’t cut him off soon, he would thaw what was left of the frozen core of her heart. And then what? Did she want to know what could happen between them? With great effort, she pushed up the barrier she knew would stop him.

“Todd has been on my mind,” she said quickly. His hand froze. “I was thinking about his restoration business. You said you were going to keep Rosemond Restoration solvent. You wrote to the Bureau of Land Management, right? Have you heard from the administrator?”

“Dr. Long.” His finger slid out of her hair. “I got a letter Thursday. The BLM concedes the contract is still in effect, but Long wants to know who’s going to do the restoration. If we can’t come up with someone pretty fast, he’s going to terminate the contract. He claims they have grounds.”

“What grounds?”

“Time. The contract contains a deadline for completing the restoration. Since Todd’s death, nothing’s been done at the fort. It would be next to impossible to finish the project on time.”

Mara studied the bull wandering toward the pickup. “What are you going to do?”

“Legally, Rosemond Restoration is your company. What do you want to do?”

“I think I could pull the project together myself.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why not? I did most of the research for Todd, so I know the historical period well and Fort Selden in particular. I have the plans in a box in my closet. Right before he died, Todd was gearing up to start the restoration. We had discussed it all so thoroughly that I know exactly what he was going to do. If I could find a competent builder and a crew that knew how to work with adobe brick, I could supervise the project.”

With a last look at his bull, Brock turned the key in the
ignition and steered the pickup back onto the road. Abby stirred as the vehicle bounced across the graded dirt, then she slipped back into slumber.

“Do you think the BLM would let you run the project?” he asked as he drove toward the mountains.

“I don’t see why not. I have a degree in history. That’s what Todd had.”

“You’re a teacher, Mara. You don’t have any experience in reconstruction and restoration. They would say you’re not qualified.”

“Oh, really? Let’s see, I went to Fort Selden umpteen times with Todd. I’ve studied all the structures inside and out. I’ve read and memorized every last detail of those plans. I have a concrete understanding of the historical period. Most important, I have an intuitive feel for that era and how to recreate it. That should be worth something.”

“Intuition as a credential?” He shrugged. “That won’t cut any ice with BLM. Todd had more than a history degree. He spent every summer during high school and college working with a construction crew—mostly building and remodeling adobe houses. He had more than head knowledge. He had real experience.”

“Brock, I can manage a restoration project as efficiently and effectively as anyone else, including Todd. Maybe I can’t operate heavy equipment myself, and maybe I don’t have the training in engineering and construction he had. But I could hire out the specialized jobs. What really matters is the end result. The detail work is what lends authenticity to any restoration. And yes, intuition plays a part in that. If I employed a builder to follow Todd’s plans, and then I monitored the historical accuracy, I believe the project would be a success. What makes you think it wouldn’t?”

He gave her a sly grin. “Just testing you. Wondered if you’d have the gumption to fight for a dream.”

Mara frowned. “Well, of all the—”

“Look, there are my horses.” He slowed the pickup again. “Beautiful, aren’t they? I ride every day if I can make the time. Around sunset is the best. Once you get to feeling better, I’ll take you out.”

Still a little off-kilter at the mental game Brock had played with her, Mara looked over his shoulder at the six fine-looking horses grazing in the open pasture. Sleek and healthy, they pawed at the grass and shook their manes in the chill air. Behind them, the mountain range loomed in shades of purple, brown and sage.

“I’ve got cattle spread out all over this range,” he said as he pushed the gas pedal. “This is the dream I’m fighting for.”

The pickup wheeled past miles of neat barbed-wire fencing, herds of grazing cattle, windmills creaking in the breeze, lonely yuccas and prickly pears, half-filled sinkholes and clumps of foxtails and catclaws. The vehicle’s riders fell silent, Brock surveying his ranch, Mara focusing on the possibilities in her own life.

“Do you think I could do it, Brock?” she asked finally. “Run the restoration company?”

“Why not? Go ahead and give it a shot.”

Mara stared unseeing at the passing landscape. “I’d need to contact builders in Las Cruces. I’d have to invite bids and work on getting the BLM’s approval.”

“Use the phone all you want. My house is your house.”

She felt a smile tug at her lips. “You know, even though I enjoyed my students and I felt good about teaching, I liked doing research for the fort project more. I felt I was touching history—my real passion—more directly.”

“Why didn’t you quit teaching sooner?”

“Todd discouraged that.”

“How come?”

“In the beginning, we needed my income. Later…I
don’t know. I guess the restoration company was his personal dream. Todd was never a selfish person, but I don’t think he wanted to share that.”

“Maybe not. Shame, though. A person ought to be able to do what she wants to do.”

Mara leaned her head back and thought over this turn of their conversation. It felt oddly releasing to be angry with Todd—to use that resentment to help let go of him. A love of history had brought them together. So why had he held her back? More important, what could stop her now?

“If you want to touch history,” Brock said, “you ought to see this place up the road. Todd and I came out here once in a while to explore. It’s an old adobe house, just about gone. Worn from the elements. Walls look like velvet, don’t they?”

Mara focused on the rippled mahogany-hued structure in the distance. Behind the old walls rose a line of steep cliffs dotted with rocky crags and overhanging mesquite shrubs. At the familiar anticipation of tackling the mystery contained within any historical site, Mara’s heart sped up and she leaned forward for a better look.