Rio Grande Wedding (16 page)

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Authors: Ruth Wind

BOOK: Rio Grande Wedding
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Alejandro lifted a hand to stroke one of the four posts on the bed, his fingers caressing the velvety grain—a rare birch. He leaned close to examine it, then whistled softly. “A man who did work this beautiful—I think his heaven would be filled with wood and tools, to make a throne for God.”
The words pierced her utterly, and she made a soft sound. “You must go,” she said suddenly, recognizing that her emotions were highly incendiary and could blow at any second.
He raised his head and she saw the bewilderment in his eyes. “I seem to step wrong every time,” he said sadly. “I am very sorry for that, Saint Molly.” He moved to the door. “Good night.” He paused. “I would like to call Josefina and tell her good-night. May I do that?” Raising his hand, the one with the turquoise ring on it, he touched her face. “Thank you for everything, Molly. You are a good woman. If you think of anything I can do, you must tell me, no?”
“I will,” she said. “I promise.” She could see it sat ill with him to be so dependent on her, and made a mental note to see if there was work available for him right away. It would ease his pride to bring in money. Then she smiled. “Actually, there are two things you can do. I draw, but not like you. I want to know how to put authority into my work. Can you show me?”
“Yes!” Light shone in his face. “I would like that.”
“And the other—I really would like to learn to speak Spanish. That's something I know you can teach me.”
“No problem.” He winked. “We will start tomorrow on those things. Now you go, take your shower, and I will settle my things, and you will not even know I am here tonight.” He touched her hair briefly, and stepped away.
It was exactly what she wanted, Molly thought. And not only had he seen her wish, but had not been offended by it. An unusual man.
 
Alejandro slept deeply and well, and to his surprise, the sun was full in the sky when he awakened. Smelling coffee, he put sweats on over his boxers and limped to the kitchen. The coffee machine—he would have to ask how it worked—was steaming and he poured a cup.
Through the window over the sink, he glimpsed Molly at work in her garden. Her hair was tied back in its usual braid. He'd only seen it down that one time. The morning was very warm, and there was sweat staining the back of her T-shirt. Smiling, he limped to the door and wandered out to the porch. “There is a good sight,” he called out. “A woman hard at work, so early in the morning.”
She laughed. “Good morning, lazybones.”
“Lazy?” he repeated mockingly. “Me?”
Brushing a tendril of hair from her eyes, she straightened. “I've already weeded the whole garden, eaten breakfast and washed a load of clothes,
señor.”
He liked her in this teasing mood. Her face was flushed with exercise, and the casual, loose-fitting clothes outlined her body very nicely. “But I have been wounded,
señora.
A man must heal.”
“You look like you feel a hundred times better this morning,” she said, eyeing him with her nurse's face. “You must have slept well.”
“Like a baby. And I told you, I am strong.” But he did not think it was the sleep that made him feel this way. It was hope, a chance to make things better for him and Josefina. He mugged a bodybuilder's pose. “Sexy, too, no?”
Her eyes skittered over the expanse of his chest and just as quickly skittered away. He grinned, rubbing his flat belly. “A little overwhelming, though. I understand.”
She laughed. “Vanity, thy name is man.” She slapped her gloves together, and the motion made her breasts, loosely clasped in some thin undergarment, move a little. He yanked his gaze away, wondering why those small, cup-shaped breasts held so much fascination.
“I've been thinking about your chickens,” she said.
“Yes?”
“If you want to build a henhouse and try it, I guess I might like having a rooster alarm clock.”
He laughed happily. “That's good! Yes, you will like it. We can find out today who has them for sale.” He sipped his coffee. “We will go see Josefina, no?”
“Of course.”
“And will you go to work?”
“No. Cathy gave me two weeks off to take care of all this.”
“Good. I would like to work, I think. I am tired of sitting and sitting. You have things I can fix here, no? That dripping sink, maybe?”
She smiled. “Sure. I'll put you to work. Get everything shipshape before you go off to real life.”
Real life. It seemed, suddenly, as he admired her in her garden, with sun falling down on her many-colored head, a very bleak prospect.
Chapter 10
T
hey spent most of the day with Josefina, who was, in the way of sick children the world over, cranky and irritable at the confinement. She insisted she felt fine, that she just wanted to go home and see her dog.
At noon, Molly ducked out to go to the local five-and-dime. She bought a basket and filled it with all kinds of little-girl things—coloring books and paper dolls, crayons and markers, a pretty doll with some extra outfits. Remembering Alejandro's comment about Josefina's intelligence, she also picked out some easy readers and a math workbook.
On the way out, she stopped by the stuffed animals to pick out a dog. It was surprising how many there were. Remembering Wiley's comments about a little mutt, she found a small brown-and-white one with a felt tongue hanging out of its smiling mouth.
At the checkout, she grinned at the checker, a woman in her sixties whose children Molly had baby-sat during her teens. “Hi, Mrs. Nolan. How're the boys?”
The blue eyes were cold behind her glasses. “They're just fine, thank you.”
Molly's immediate impulse was to try to make things right—explain her actions, paste on her brightest fake smile and remind the woman that she was still Molly Sheffield, everybody's favorite girl next door.
She resisted. “I'm glad,” she said as if she had not noticed the hostility. “Please tell them I said hello.”
There was no reply. Feeling vaguely triumphant over her ability to remain strong in the face of community disapproval, Molly paid and drove back to the hospital.
At the desk, she stopped to talk to the floor nurse. “How's she doing, Annie?”
Annie, a Latina in her twenties, fresh from nursing school, shook her head. “It's TB for sure. The tests came back.” She sighed heavily. “The worry now is infection. She has an elevated white-cell count, and the doctor is concerned about pneumonia.”
“I see. Did you tell her uncle?”
“Yeah. He seemed very worried about it. Maybe you can reassure him that we should be able to treat it with no trouble.” Annie glanced over her shoulder and leaned close. “Where did you find him? He's absolutely gorgeous! I want one.”
Molly laughed and wiggled her eyebrows. “He doesn't have a brother, but maybe a cousin, huh?”
Annie sighed. “And he's so polite. I never meet polite men.”
“I'd better get in there if he's worrying.” Molly hauled the basket off the counter and went down to the room. When she pushed open the door, her gaze fell first on Alejandro, standing at the bedside, reading a ragged copy of a picture book to Josefina. He halted at a word, and shook his head. “This one, I don't know, hija. You have to help me.”
Josefina laughed. “It's
white,
Tío. You know that.”
“Oh,
white!
Sure, sure, I see now.” He looked up and caught Molly's eye. “Lucky for me I have such a smart child to help me, huh?” His tone was light, but Molly saw the lines of strain around his mouth. And a moment later, when Josefina coughed, the sound deep and obviously painful, Molly understood why.
Still, no good would come of him wearing himself out entirely. His own health was fragile. “Did your uncle eat, like I told him to?” Molly asked Josefina.
“No.” Molly saw with concern that there was a faint sheen on her forehead. “I told him to, but he wouldn't.”
“I ate your pudding!”
“Big deal, right, kiddo?” Molly put the basket on the side of the bed and took out a bag of hamburgers. “I'm pretty smart, too.” She gave Alejandro the bag and a cola, and started taking out the other things for Josefina, who was quite happy with all of it, especially the little dog, but tired so quickly that Molly was genuinely alarmed. “You want to just watch some TV for a little while, kiddo?”
Josefina nodded. Molly clicked on the set, found some cartoons and tucked blankets around the girl more carefully. She inclined her head toward the door, looking at Alejandro, and he stood. “We'll be back in a few minutes, little one, okay?”
The child, hand tucked under her chin, nodded dully.
In the hall, he said, “Tell me.”
Molly knew better than to mince words with him. “It looks like pneumonia. We have to let her rest. If you don't want to leave the hospital entirely, I can understand that, but you have to take care of yourself, too. You can't let yourself get too tired.”
“I am well now.”
“No,” she said firmly. “You really are not. And if you'd like to be back in bed, flat on your back, keep skipping meals and worrying.”
A faint grin turned up one side of his mouth, and he touched her upper arm with one finger. “Bossy.”
“You'd better believe it.”
 
But unfortunately, Josefina's condition worsened dramatically over the next couple of hours. By supper, she was moved to ICU, with oxygen, and permitted a visitor only once an hour for ten minutes.
Alejandro stood there for the whole ten minutes each hour. Most of that time, she was sleeping and he could only hold her hand, murmuring prayers, over and over. Reckless prayers, offered in desperation to all the saints he could remember. He listened to the swoosh and beeps of the machines with a sense of breathlessness, as if it were his own chest infected. He wished it was. He took the medal off his neck and put it around her wrist, and prayed some more.
In between, he dozed in the waiting room, and Molly stayed with him, holding his hand sometimes, attempting to reassure him. She left for a while and came back with food, which he ate mechanically. He wanted to send her away, wished he did not need her again, so soon, that one day, somehow, he would be the strong one. She would think him a weak man indeed, and he was not.
 
Finally, a little past midnight, the fever broke and Josefina seemed out of danger for a little while. The doctor, reporting the news in a face that seemed sincere, told Alejandro this would be a good time to go home and get some sleep. “Maybe by the time you come back in the morning, she'll be able to eat with you.”
“You will tell her I am coming back? And if she—”
“I'll call you.” The doctor looked at Molly with a smile Alejandro found vaguely insulting, and he scowled, tugging his arm away from Molly's hand. They were treating him as if he were the child.
“Does my worry amuse you?” he asked pointedly.
“On the contrary, Mr. Sosa, I find it refreshing.” The doctor pursed her lips. “However, it would not take a trained professional to see that you are dead on your feet and need to get some rest. Those are my orders. Let your wife take you home.”
His wife. He had almost forgotten. Wiping a hand over his face, he nodded. “I am sorry.”
On the way to the house, Alejandro saw that Molly, too, was exhausted. Blue shadows lay under her eyes. Impulsively, he reached across the seat. “Thank you for staying with me. It was good not to be alone.”
She attempted a smile that fell short of her eyes.
Inside, Molly threw her keys on the table and kicked off her shoes, then moved to the kitchen. Alejandro followed more slowly, his body reminding him forcefully that he was not yet healed, and there was, too, a hollowness in his chest that he couldn't quite pinpoint until he also drank a glass of water and they were standing side by side, dull-witted and staring sightlessly at the gray shapes of moon-washed lavender beds outside the window.
Suddenly, the full force of it all hit Alejandro, and with a strangled sound, he reached for the counter. “If she had been outside another day,” he said roughly, “she would have died.”
“Yes,” Molly whispered.
Something in her posture, coupled with his own need for human touch, made him reach for her, pull her next to him. And there was not even a hint of resistance. She flowed into his embrace, and put her head on his shoulder with a sigh.
It eased the hollowness in him, and he closed his eyes, inexpressibly weary, drawing comfort from the warmth and softness of her. In an ancient motion of comfort, they rocked ever so slightly.
“I can tell you now that it's over,” she said quietly, “and she's out of danger.” She paused. “But she almost died tonight. I have never prayed so hard in all my life.”
It pierced him, and he rubbed his cheek against her hair. “So did I.”
And there was no more need for words. They simply leaned together, finding support and comfort from the other. Vaguely, he wondered why humans needed this, needed to feel the breath of another, feel the warmth of blood below flesh, the assurance of life continuing.
The need for sleep edged into his brain, sucked will from his muscles. He raised his head. “Molly, will you let me sleep beside you? Only sleep, I promise.” He touched her hair. “I want to hold you.”
She simply nodded, took his hand and led him to her bedroom. He took off his shirt, and would have left on his jeans, but she gave him a half smile. “I've already seen everything.”
But more modest than he, she took a flannel nightshirt into the bathroom and came back, suddenly shy, he could tell. Carefully, he did not look at her bare legs, and held out a hand. “Only sleep, Saint Molly. We both need to touch.”
Without another word of protest, she slid under the covers and across the bed into his arms. Her head fit neatly into his shoulder, and her small hand rested against his chest, and with a sigh, he let sleep come on him.
 
When Molly awakened, the first thing she became aware of was Alejandro's breath against her neck. There was not a single second of confusion over exactly who it was in the bed with her, the bed she'd only shared with one man her whole life.
And there was no mistaking the feel of his long-fingered hand resting loosely upon her hip. No mistake in the rush of feelings that overtook her when she realized she was lying here with the man who, if she were honest, had occupied center stage of her fantasies for several days now. Against her bare calf, she felt the silky hair of his shin. His soft breath, warm and moist on her neck, made her imagine how close his mouth was to her flesh.
She ached to turn, simply roll over in the nest of blankets, and put her hands on him. Instead, savoring the moment as it was, she simply lay very still and gloried in the surprise that was Alejandro Sosa. Every facet of him surprised her, but especially this. How many men would have slept beside a woman without trying something? How many men would have been so respectful of her needs and wishes in every little thing?
What an odd freedom he'd given her!
His hand moved on her hip, moved away, and Molly felt him getting up. Bereft, she turned. “I didn't know you were awake.”
With his back to her, that long, butter-smooth, golden back, he said, “I have been awake for a long time, Saint Molly. I am going to take a shower and make coffee for you.” Still keeping his back to her, he slipped into his jeans, then turned and tugged the cover back over her shoulder. “Sleep a little longer.”
She gazed up at him sleepily, hungrily, wishing for the courage to pull the covers back and invite him to crawl back into bed with her. For a moment, as he stood there, looking down, she thought he was going to do it, even without her invitation. Then he smiled. “Sleep some more,” he said, and left her.
When he was safely gone, she pulled a pillow over her head and groaned. If nerves were visible, she would look like a porcupine. Every single one stood on alert, distended, ready. She needed his hands on her. His mouth. His body. It was the only thing that would soothe those nerves back into place.
She pushed the pillow down harder on her face. The smell of him lingered in it, sending the longing up one more notch, making her remember the way his long, copper limbs had looked when she bathed him, when his black hair was drawn back from that elegantly arranged face.
The water came on in the bathroom. Right by her head. On the other side of that wall he was naked, all six feet two inches of muscled flesh. Right now, water was spilling over him,
all
over him. His neck. His beautiful shoulders. His mouth. His sex.
Her skin was on fire. What was wrong with her? In disgust, she got up, threw on her robe and started unweaving her tangled braid. She was crazy. He was kind and honorable and virtuous. She was a sex-crazed female who couldn't think how to seduce him.
Maybe, she thought, yanking a brush through her hair, he wasn't all that interested. He'd certainly had plenty of opportunity—and it wasn't like men of any culture were slow to pick up on those signals. She'd been blipping red-hot since the first night she'd lusted over him in the back room, when he had ostensibly been just a patient she was nursing back to health.
Get over it, she told herself with a glare, and flung open the door, stomping down the hallway in her bare feet, studiously ignoring the sound of the shower behind the bathroom door.

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