Rio Grande Wedding (11 page)

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Authors: Ruth Wind

BOOK: Rio Grande Wedding
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It didn't stop him. With the pad of his thumb, he touched her lower lip, brushing over the flesh lightly. So lightly it was like a breath, and yet she felt the radiating reaction in the tiny hairs that rose on her body, down her nape, across her shoulders, down to her breasts and the front of her thighs. She wanted to open her lips a little, touch her tongue to the tip of his thumb, but only knelt there next to him, feeling his hand on her face, her lip, and recognized that she'd never felt this level of desire for a man in her life.
He blinked, slowly, and his hand slid down her neck. “You're so beautiful,” he murmured. “So alone.”
Lonely.
Desire evaporated in the heat of humiliation and she turned her head away, her mouth tight, taking his wrist and putting his hand back on his own body. “You're not awake,” she said briskly. “Wake up, Alejandro. This is important.”
“I am awake,” he said. But then her tone seemed to penetrate, and he frowned. “What is it?” He straightened too fast and she heard him grunt. His hands flew to his ribs, and Molly, loath as she was to touch him, put a hand against his back to ease him up.
“What did you learn?” he said harshly.
“It's good news,” she said. “Josefina is okay.”
He lifted his head and blinked at her. “What did you say?”
She smiled. “Josefina is found. They brought her to the hospital. She's sick, but I told her you were okay, too.” Aware of the places she still touched him, her palm to his back, her knee against his thigh, she shifted to the chair near his knees. “But she's found.”
An exhalation gusted from him, a sound of profound relief. He closed his eyes, uttering a soft prayer of thanks. To her surprise, he reached for Molly's hand. In the fierce grip of his fingers, she felt the force of his emotion. After a moment, he said, “Now you will not worry about your brother. We will go soon, and he will not know.”
Molly bowed her head. Released his hand to give herself some distance. “It isn't that easy, Alejandro.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“I told you she is sick. You knew a little of that—you took her to the Health Services clinic, right? And they gave you inhalers.”
He frowned. “Yes, they said she had the asthma.”
“It's not asthma. We aren't sure yet, but it looks like tuberculosis.” She shook her head and spilled the rest very quickly. “The tests aren't back yet, but I'm going to tell you, it is TB, and it's serious, and she will have to be in the hospital for a while.”
He touched her hand, once, lightly. “Molly, go slower, eh?”
“Sorry.” But she took another big breath to fuel the rest of the words coming out of her now. “I thought and thought about this, and I don't know what you'll think, but there are no real answers, Alejandro. Not without lying.” She could not bear to sit there and tell him the rest of the plan, so she jumped up and paced to the middle of the room, turned and folded her arms across her chest.
“This is my suggestion—we could tell everyone we met before and fell madly in love and we're going to get married and then Josefina can get her medicine and you can get tested without getting deported, and maybe you can find some real work around here because it takes eighteen months for her to take all the medicine.”
He went very still, his face completely unreadable. “Say that again. Very slowly. I do not want to misunderstand.”
Feeling a painful heat in her face, Molly took a breath. “If we do a wedding, pretending to be in love, Josefina can be treated for her illness.” She lifted a shoulder. “It won't have to be for long. Once your citizenship is established, we can divorce.”
He looked away for a moment, and his hair fell forward, hiding his expression. Molly pressed her lips together, letting her offer settle, wondering if she'd offended him. “It's not only for you,” she added. “The whole town is going to find out that Molly Sheffield, the deputy sheriff's sister, was aiding and abetting a fugitive. I dispensed antibiotics and provided medical care for which I'm not licensed.”
When he still was silent, she shook her head. “Okay,” she said breathily. “You're right, it was a silly idea. I didn't mean to offend you.”
He raised his head. “Offend me?”
Her hands fluttered, touched her breast, her face. She clasped them together in front of her. “Yes, make you mad.”
Alejandro stood, very straight. Lean, too, and much taller than she. Graveness marked his mouth. “I did not mean I don't know the word. I know
offend.”
He touched her shoulder lightly. “I also know honor.”
Stiffly, Molly looked up at him, unable to hide the tears of humiliation in her eyes or the flush of embarrassment in her face. As if he saw it, he lifted his hands and touched the fingertips to her cheeks. In her own defense, she began, “You must think—”
“I think you are kind.” He laughed a little. “I think you are Mother Teresa, eh? It seems so.” He lowered his hands to her arms. “If you do this thing for my niece and I, I will do anything to repay you. Fix your house. Plant your fields. Drive your car. Whatever you ask, that thing I will do.”
His eyes glowed. His grip on her arms was loose, but firm. Intent somehow. She let go of a shaky breath. “Then we have a deal.” Again she bit her lip. “There is one more thing.”
He stepped back as she moved away, crossing her arms. “Everyone knows me here. The only way this will work is if we pretend that I've been seeing you since you arrived. We have to pretend that we fell in love.”
A wicked, wicked grin, one that showed that half moon of dazzling teeth, illuminated his face. He lifted one black, arched eyebrow. “In love, eh?”
Abruptly, she sank to a chair and covered her face. “Oh, this is so weird. I swear I'm not playing a game with you, okay? I'm a widow and I have been for a long time, so I'm not just trying to...get your attention.” She dropped her hands. “I really loved my husband. I still miss him. This is just an act.”
He swallowed the smile. “I understand, Molly. We pretend only.”
“Right Okay, but this is the weird part—they have to believe us. Or everything will be worse. A lot worse. My brother, especially. Can you pretend to be wildly in love?”
He inclined his head, and she felt his gaze slide over her hair, touch her breasts, her hands. Mockingly, he pursed his lips, as if considering, and tsked. Sighing heavily, he said, “Well, I will try.”
She gave him a faint smile. “You're teasing me.”
He laughed, and it occurred to her that she had not heard the sound before. It rolled from his chest, as welcome as a desert rain. He moved close and held out a hand to her. “Come.”
Warily, Molly accepted his hand and let him pull her to her feet. Her heart stuttered for a moment, as anticipation or fear or something rose in her chest.
Then he cupped her face in his palm and bent to kiss the other cheek. A wash of his hair touched her nose, and she caught her breath defensively against the wealth of scent that came with him, a scent unlike any she'd ever smelled, anywhere on the earth. It was his flesh, his hair, his honor.
“Gracias,”
he said quietly.
“You're welcome,” she said, and pulled back. “Let's get this in motion now. You have to come to the hospital with me.”
“To see Josefina?”
“Yes,” she said. Squarely, she met his eyes. “And to show them we are in love.”
“Ah.” Again that new wickedness showed in his expression. “Should we...try to see if we can do it?”
“What do you mean?”.
He stepped close, lifting his hands to her face. “Practice?”
Before she could protest, Alejandro bent again and pressed that beautiful mouth to hers.
His mouth.
She closed her eyes, letting everything she was flow to that place, putting every thought, every caution on hold so that she could indulge the purely physical pleasure of kissing Alejandro.
There was the scent, first of all. She knew there had never been a man who smelled this good. And there was the sound, a soft sound of air moving through their lungs.
But mostly, there was touch. His magnificent mouth, wide enough, and full enough for a truly sensual kind of kiss that needed no tongue, only the slight, explorative movements of flesh against charged flesh, a slide, a press, a purse, a release.
Have mercy. She made a soft sound and moved a little closer, feeling now things just beyond the field of actual touch—the suggestion of his chest very close to her breasts, the knowledge of his belly and sex so very close to her own.
As if her mouth surprised him, he lifted his head and their eyes met for one electric moment of dazzlement and pleasure and surprise, then he bent again, this time with more intent, his hand sliding from her face to the back of her head, the fingers long against her scalp, bracing her as he tilted his head and fitted their mouths more closely together. There was no fumble, no misstep, only a surprisingly harmonious meeting.
Somehow, she found her hands on his chest, not to push him away, but to steady herself so that she could tilt her head, part her lips a little. And yet, still, even though she tasted the warmth of his breath, sensed the moistness of his tongue beyond his barely open lips, he restrained himself. He only kissed her lips, delicately, first the lower, then the upper, then a corner. Soft kisses, whispers, a slight sweep of tongue over her lower lip, a sweep that sent a rocket of sensation through her body.
She tugged at his hand. “Alejandro,” she said softly, and opened her eyes. “Please...I...”
He dropped his hands, stepped away. “Good practice, no?”
She nodded, resisted the urge to put her hand to her tingling lips. “Yes.” She swallowed.
Suddenly, the enormity of her every action since this man had landed—literally—on her property sunk in, and she found herself disoriented. Lost. Shaky. Scared. “We'll go to the hospital in a couple of hours. I think...uh...I need to get a few hours of sleep.” She backed away. “Josefina will sleep till morning.”
“Molly, I did not mean—”
“It isn't you.” She managed a very small smile. “I'm just tired.”
He nodded, frowning. “Sleep then. I will make some coffee for you when you wake up, no?”
Molly blinked. “Okay.”
Chapter 7
A
lone in her bedroom, Molly closed the door and shed her clothes hastily, as if they contained the poison that was corrupting her blood. Shrugging into a thick robe, she gathered clean underwear and toiletries, and went to the bathroom for a shower, moving furtively through the hall, her head down, afraid to look up and see him and—
What? Throw herself on his mercy? Her face flamed as she imagined herself begging him to make love to her. Now. Any way he liked. Just so she could shed her clothes and put her whole self against his nakedness.
What was it about him, anyway, that inflamed her so intensely? She wasn't a woman given to such lustful imaginings. She just...didn't do it. Sex had been a pleasurable discovery, and one she enjoyed, but it was like gardening or painting—satisfying but not electrifying.
But from the moment she'd first seen Alejandro's face, she'd been aflame.
In the bathroom, she locked the door, glared at herself and said, “Don't you dare make a fool of yourself, Molly.”
She turned the water on. Hot. Hot hot hot. Steam curled up the walls, misted the line of small windows where greenery lived, enveloped her in its embrace, and somehow, it helped.
Alejandro had put his finger on the problem last night. She was lonely. Not only that, she was living in a lonely place, a place she'd bought as a newlywed, and worked on with her husband. She had believed the rooms would one day be filled with the laughter of children.
Instead, she lived here alone, outside of town, where she couldn't even see a neighbor's lamp burning in the night.
She put her hand flat against the varnished pine wall Tim had been so proud of, and she remembered his hand—that white, freckled, golden-furred hand—rest—ing there, too. As if making up for the months in which she had finally begun to miss him less, wave after wave of tactile, physical memory assailed her. His laughter in her ear. His bony feet. His thick blond hair and sturdy shoulders. The little paunch he put on in the winter.
It seemed odd to her, suddenly, that she had begun to believe that her penance was over. She had managed to walk upright through her grief, had not fallen to drink or depression or any of the other pitfalls that might have lessened her virtue in grieving.
What, exactly, had she hoped to gain in that virtue?
The answer was inexplicable and yet perfectly clear in terms of emotional logic: she had, somewhere in her, expected to get him
back.
She showed the universe she could be tested without cracking, and she'd been waiting, with half-held breath, for the universe to give her back her husband.
The recognition hit her like a blow.
Kissing Alejandro had brought home the futility of that secret, illogical wish. If her husband was coming back, she wouldn't betray him by lusting after another man. She wouldn't have allowed a kiss.
She wouldn't have suggested a green-card wedding, either. With a sense of tearing, she found herself forced to let go, to face the fact that, no matter how virtuous she'd been, Tim was never, ever going to come back.
With a cry, she sank to the bathroom floor and wept. Not tiny baby tears. Great, gulping, engulfing sobs. Her exhaustion and the sudden events of the past few days had made her vulnerable, but she recognized that was only the trigger. Seeing Tim's clothes on Alejandro, touching him, feeling again that richness of life in her arousal, her attraction, had brought home how very gone her husband was.
Gone.
She wept.
 
Alejandro let Molly retreat, recognizing the unsettling trueness of that kiss—a kiss that had begun as a way to lighten the tension between them, make her smile, and had become... something else.
He was in the kitchen, making coffee for himself, when he heard the sobs. The sound drew him, and he made his way down the hall in concern. He knew this sound. It was grief—the kind that stole over a person and sucked out the breath, nearly stopped the heart. He'd known it only twice in his life, at the death of his parents and upon the death of his sister.
Standing outside the bathroom door, he hesitated. The shower was running and maybe she had hoped that it would drown the sound of her sorrow. And yet it had not. He could not bear to think of her so very, very sad and alone after all she'd given him and Josefina. He knocked, firmly, so she would hear over the shower.
“Señora?”
A beat of silence, one broken by a strangled sound. “I'm okay.”
“No, no.” He jiggled the door handle, to let her know he meant to come in. “You do not need to be so alone when I am here to help you.”
“I'm okay,” she repeated.
He thought for a moment, and leaned against the door. “Saint Molly, will you let me give back just this one thing?
Por favor?”
Silence. Then the door opened, and she stood there looking small and impossibly frail in an oversize robe, her hair loose on her shoulders, her face ravaged and unbeautiful in grief. Her eyes burned an unholy color of silver in the midst of the red of weeping, and Alejandro did exactly what came to him: he moved forward, closed the door to prevent the heat and damp of the steam from leaving the room and enfolded her in his arms. He held her tightly, without hesitation, putting a hand on her head to encourage her to lie it in the cradle of his shoulder. She was stiff for a moment, resisting, then something broke free and she gripped him, buried her face, and he felt her shoulders shake. “It's been four years,” she moaned. “How can it still hurt like this, all at once, so I can't breathe?”
“It does, that's all.” His balance was precarious, and he braced himself against the door, stroking her hair, stroking, stroking.
“He's not coming back. Not ever.”
“No,” he said quietly. The shower ran and ran, and the steam was so thick in the room that his face was wet in moments. “But he was here. He lived. In these rooms, no?” He rubbed his cheek on her hair, not out of longing, but out of need to comfort. “He wore this shirt. He loved you, and you loved him.”
She nodded, and more tears fell, a river of them, but these were somehow richer, less stricken.
“You will not forget him, Saint Molly. And now I will know him, too, by knowing you. Any man you loved so well must have been very fine.”
“He was.” The words came out strangled, but he felt the difference in her. Moving gently, he settled her on the toilet and reached for the washcloth. He ran cold water on it and started to kneel before the assorted pains in him stopped that action.
Instead, he bent, putting one hand on her shoulder to brace himself a little, and used the other to blot her hot, swollen face. She closed her eyes with a sigh and let him press the cold cloth to her eyelids. “Thank you.”
“If my kiss made that come, I am sorry, Molly.”
She raised her face, put a hand to his wrist. “It was just that it made me remember. It wasn't you.”
And with a fierceness that surprised him, he suddenly wanted to kiss her with all the passion that lived in him. Wanted to tangle with her in a way that bruised and healed them both. It swelled in him, swift and biting, this lust, and shocked him enough that he stepped back. “The water will be cold,” he said, and put the washcloth in her hand.
After her shower, Molly fell into bed and slept for nearly four hours. It was the sleep of the dead, and she felt cleansed when she awakened. Her mind was sharp and clear as she dressed and drank some of Alejandro's extraordinary coffee. “You really will have to show me how to make this,” she said, standing at the sink in the sunshine.
She had brought him fresh clothing, more things that had belonged to Tim, right down to the boxer shorts. He looked troubled when she carried them out of the bedroom. “Are you sure,
señora?
I do not wish to cause you more pain.”
“He would kill me if I let those clothes sit there when someone could get some use out of them,” she said briskly, and meant it.
They did not, Molly admitted now, fit him particularly well. Alejandro was a little taller and a good twenty pounds lighter than Tim had been, so the sleeves and jeans were the smallest bit too short, and everything was baggy. He obviously knew this, too, for he plucked restlessly at the shirt collar, tried to smooth the button placket as if to make it fit better. “Don't worry about it,” Molly said now. “We'll get some more clothes for you.”
He scowled. “No. I cannot allow that.”
“How about if I write it down, keep an account? Will that make you feel better?”
He considered. The angle of cheekbone to eyebrow to chin remained impassive, but he could not halt the movements of that wide, mobile mouth, which finally pursed into an expression of agreement.
“Si.
I can make money in only a week or two. Then I can repay you.”
 
 
“Fair enough.”
Parked outside the hospital a little while later, Molly made a move to open the door. He stopped her. “Are you certain you wish to do this?”
She did not even hesitate. “Yes.”
“Will they believe you are in love with such a man?”
“Such a man.” Even in the ill-fitting clothes, he was a sight for starved women's eyes—the black-licorice hair, neatly combed away from his face to fall around his collar in thick waves, the liquid dark eyes in a face of striking angles, the sensual mouth. “Oh, yes, Alejandro. They will believe.”
“And all men could see why I would find passion for such a woman,” he said lightly, but the words touched her. “Come, then. I wish to see my niece.”
Leaning on a cane she'd brought to him from the hospital, he rounded the car and took her hand, raising his eyebrows a little as he did so. “For courage.”
And oddly, it did lend her courage to have her hand firmly clasped in his as they walked, a promise of kept secrets.
The halls were quiet as they entered—it was just past nine, and there had evidently been no more new emergencies through the night. Molly had timed their arrival so that they would not miss Cathy, her supervisor, and she found her at the nurses' station, one hand in her already mussed hair as she scribbled notes on an insurance form.
“Cathy,” Molly said quietly.
The woman looked up, blinking, and then blinked again as she took in the fact that Molly was not alone.
“This is Alejandro Sosa,” Molly said. “He is the uncle of the little girl Wiley brought in last night.” She took a breath, and as if he felt her nervousness, Alejandro tightened his fingers around hers. “He is also my fiancé.”
Clearly, Cathy could not take it in. “Fiancé? As in getting married to?”
“Yes.” On the spur of the moment, she made up a story. “I—we—had planned to go through proper channels, but circumstances have forced us to move up the date.”
Cathy looked from Molly to Alejandro, then stood up and held out her hand. “I'm so happy to meet you.”
“Thank you.”
“Keep it under your hat for a little while, huh?” Molly asked. “I'm going to see my brother after we are finished here. I'd rather he heard the news from me.”
Cathy raised her eyebrows. “That should go over well.”
“Oh, yeah.” Molly shrugged. “I think we need to see Josefina now. Have any of the tests come back?”
Cathy rounded the desk to accompany them, and as they walked down the hall to the little girl's room, she said, “The labs will take a few days, but based on the X rays, it's undoubtedly TB.”
No surprise, but Molly squeezed Alejandro's hand, sparing a look at him. His mouth was set in a line.
Outside the room, Cathy provided them with face masks. “Standard procedure,” she explained to Alejandro.
He nodded and tied the mask around his face. Cathy pushed open the door, and Alejandro winked at Molly. “Do I look like a desperado?”
She grinned. “Dangerous.”
Josefina turned her head as they came in, and when she saw who it was, she cried out in almost painful recognition, “Tío!”
Alejandro was across the room and hugging her before Molly could blink. Until now, the connection between these two had been purely academic, a fact without substance. Now, the girl wept in sobbing hiccups, and Alejandro hugged her gently, kissing her head, murmuring to her in Spanish. The words were unclear to Molly, but the gist was clear,
Everything is okay.
It took a few minutes but at last Alejandro settled his niece on the pillows, tugged the blankets over her and parked his hand on her forehead. “You are very sick,
hija.
Did they tell you?”
“Molly told me.” The child pointed to her and Molly went around to the other side of the bed, taking her hand. “Last night.”

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