Sixty Acres and a Bride (15 page)

Weston didn’t follow. Hoping that Smokey could be directed as easily as a burro, Rosa jabbed him with her heels and kept him facing the house until he reached the porch.

Had she imagined their exchange? Had she misinterpreted his mood? Surely he’d have a ready explanation, or maybe he’d resume from where they’d left off.

The horse seemed taller now. The distance from her feet to the ground had grown. Sure, she’d hopped out of taller trees, but she hadn’t seen a woman dismount without help. The proper thing to do—she could just imagine Louise saying—would be to wait for help. But where was he?

Weston’s hat appeared over the rise, and she released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Rosa smiled over her shoulder, but he didn’t look in her direction. Had she offended him?

He arrived in silence, his mouth grim in the shadow of his hat. Without a word, he dismounted and untied the strap holding her bag. He dropped it next to the door and went back to pluck her off her horse. She’d already thrown her leg over and only had to slide down into his arms, but he planted her on the ground without making eye contact.

“I’d best be getting back to Palmetto.” He sounded tired.

“Is something wrong? You don’t seem . . .”

Weston pulled himself into the saddle. “I’m sorry. Those shooting lessons will have to commence later. You take care, Mrs. Garner.” He rode away, dragging Smokey behind him, leaving her abandoned on her doorstep.

No more farewell than that? That was good-bye? She was rooted to the spot, unable to move. He didn’t even bother to turn the horses but was riding the loop around her property on his way out. What had she done wrong?

Defeated, Rosa went inside and let the door swing close of its own initiative. She couldn’t figure the man out. When he should be mad at her, he forgave. When she responded to his good spirits, he withdrew. What was she missing?

Not trusting her emotions, she ran for Louise. Louise might not have any answers, but her sympathetic mother-in-law would tend to her bruised feelings. She checked Louise’s room first, searching for the nurturing comfort of the only mother she had, but found it vacant. The kitchen was empty, as well, and Louise’s bonnet was missing from the peg board next to the door.

Rosa was alone in the house. The stale air had been undisturbed all day. Of course! Louise had gone to Prairie Lea with Deacon Bradford. She wouldn’t be home until evening, leaving Rosa all day to fret over Weston’s behavior.

But before she could worry about Weston, she had a bigger threat to consider. Had Tillerton seen her?

Still unsure of how to handle the troublesome neighbor, Rosa prayed he wasn’t near. She wouldn’t endure his advances, but how forcefully could she refuse? Kicking a snake only got you bit.

If only Louise were home.

Conejo brayed. Rosa flew to the kitchen window over the basin. Her burro hadn’t lied. Stepping from behind the barn, Tillerton shaded his eyes and peered at the house.

She reached a decision. Rosa would stop at nothing to keep him away. If he came inside looking for her, she’d be ready.

Rosa slid open the drawer to the right of the basin and grasped the longest, heaviest knife they owned. The gun wouldn’t do her any good now that he knew she couldn’t shoot, and Weston had refused to teach her. But where should she hide?

She flung the pantry curtain back, but shuddered at the thought of being trapped with her back against the shelves. Goosebumps appeared on her arms as she scurried past the windows. Could she find somewhere to hide that wasn’t confining? Through the parlor to Louise’s room she ran and searched for space under the bed or in the wardrobe. Nowhere seemed safe enough.

The kitchen door rattled.

Rosa froze.

Moving cautiously, she slid around the doorjamb into the stairway. The cold, heavy handle of the knife bit into her palm. She gripped it so tightly her heartbeat vibrated the blade. Silently she backed up one step, then another.

A voice called out, now inside the house.

Maybe he wouldn’t be brazen enough to follow her upstairs, but his footsteps rang through the kitchen. She took another step backward, and a board creaked.

Silence, and then the muffled sound of boots on the parlor rug.

No time to hide. He was coming after her, but Rosa wouldn’t go without a fight. Raising her voice she answered the challenge. The words flying from her mouth weren’t English, or even Spanish. Her mother tongue of Nahuatl, the language she first heard at her birth and would speak even now, at her demise, filled the air. Rosa held her ground at the top of the stairs, where she stood with a death grip on the banister, brandished the cleaver, and called down every curse the millennium-old language had spawned.

But the man who stepped around the corner wasn’t her enemy.

It was Weston.

The knife clattered to the floor as Rosa’s hand flew to her mouth. She crumpled on the stairs.

Weston holstered his pistol as he rushed up to meet her.

“I didn’t know what kind of banshee had hold of you.” He lifted his hands as if to take her in his arms, but they changed directions midair and crossed, drawing his chest closed like a locked gate.

His brow lowered. “You’re okay?”

She nodded, shaking. Would it kill him to touch her? But he kept talking.

“Tell me, why do you need to know how to shoot?”

He’d come back. He hadn’t left without a good-bye. Maybe his presence was enough for now.

She rocked as she struggled to control her gasps for air. With effort she willed the lines out of her face. “I’m scared.”

He waited for her to rise and then clumped down the narrow stairway to the kitchen, leaving her to follow. Seeing the Winchester propped up in the corner, he swung it into his hands and took a long, hard look out the kitchen window.

Knees still unsteady, Rosa dropped into a chair. “Why did you come back?”

He checked the barrel for ammunition, all business now. Obviously there’d be no sympathetic hugs or emotional tête-à-tête. Well, that was fine. If she could nail Jay Tillerton’s hide to a wall from a hundred yards, her fears would be squelched. No sympathy required.

“I came back because I ran into a neighbor of yours.” Weston studied her, not missing anything. “From the look on your face, I’d guess that my hunch is correct. Where do you keep your cartridges?” Rosa pointed to a white crockery pot in the pantry. He retrieved it and set it on the table.

“When I was leaving, I thought I saw movement behind your barn. Sure enough, there was Jay Tillerton, brazen as Jezebel, waiting for me to leave.” Weston pulled a cartridge from his gun belt and compared it with the rifle’s loads. They were the same as far as Rosa could tell. He stocked the magazine from the canister and worked the bolt action to chamber it.

“So I asked him what he was up to. He didn’t have a real quality answer. Something about checking on your sheep—as if he knows the first thing about sheep.” He looked out the window again. “Is this the only gun you want to learn on?”

She nodded. What would be happening right at this moment if Weston hadn’t discovered Tillerton?

“I reckon that got me thinking. I asked him how his wife was and if she minded him looking after his neighbors’ spreads, and he just gave me a nasty grin. Said he didn’t care much what his wife thought. By the time we were done, he allowed that he might as well go home and check on her.” Weston laid the gun across the table. “I started thinking of you here by yourself, and how you’ve never asked me to do anything for you. Why would you ask to learn to shoot?” He took her bonnet from the peg by the door and turned it in his strong hands. “It must be real important to you, and I didn’t listen.”

No denying it, he’d hurt her riding off like he did, but he didn’t owe her an apology. He didn’t owe her anything.

“Thank you for coming back. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t.”

He swallowed hard and tossed her the bonnet. “It’s not every day I get a second chance. Now, let’s make you dangerous.”

“One thing first. Do you speak Nahuatl?”

“Nahuatl? Never heard of it.”

Rosa smiled. “Good!”

To Weston’s surprise Rosa’s fragile collarbone and delicate shoulder survived the repeated battering of the gun’s recoil. With every strike on the barrel side, she grew more and more confident. Tomorrow she’d be sore, but he hoped handling the powerful weapon would eliminate her worries.

He ate the last bite of the bean-stuffed tortilla and licked the remains from his fingers. Weston hadn’t planned to spend all day with her, but as the wait for Louise lengthened, so did his enjoyment. Rosa belonged in the Garner family. She took such pride in her livestock and crops, it was hard to believe she wasn’t raised to be a rancher’s wife.

She showed him the chickens, big enough to eat but not laying yet, and the sheep—all healthy and not a coyote to be seen. Their garden was a modest success. It would provide enough produce to make it through the next harvest. Not bad for two women just starting out. And after supper was over she washed up and brought out her stitching.

Before they took the rockers on the front porch, Rosa found some soft rags and oil for Wes, who set out to give her rifle a much needed cleaning. With their work before them, they settled in for a quiet evening waiting for Louise and trying to eke out the last of the light from the summer sky.

Although it’d been difficult to keep his distance, Weston counted the day a success. He’d looked over their farm and evaluated it with a professional eye, making suggestions when he thought they’d be helpful but not allowing the conversation to drift into areas that would be considered personal. Taking a step backward was painful, knowing Rosa had to be aware of the change, but she didn’t protest, accepting whatever breed of friendship he offered.

No stumbles caused her to fall into his arms. They exchanged no weighty glances, and most importantly, no dancing occurred. She pretended not to notice the difference and let things be. That was what he wanted, right? To have a wall of defense between himself and any eligible lady?

His spine stiffened and he sat straighter in the rocking chair. He’d exiled himself from women for the last five years. Why did it take so much effort now? Why did he feel as if he were riding the brake down a steep grade? Until this week he thought it implausible he would ever court again. Now, instead of exerting himself to be social, he had to restrain himself. Rosa realized it first, and after seeing the truth mirrored in her eyes, he couldn’t deny it any longer. He was falling for her.

Riding along with her hand under his, he felt ready. Maybe he could lay his future before God. Maybe he could loosen his grip and let go.

That’s what she’d read in his eyes, and she wasn’t mistaken. She fascinated Weston, but when she’d responded to him, he’d turned tail and run. He’d gone yellow.

Disgusted with himself, Weston forced his thoughts to the task at hand. With the ramrod he pushed the wad of cloth through the barrel, but the sharp oily smell brought back memories, just as poignant, reminding him of evenings with his parents when he was young. His father would often bring a gun to repair or clean in the parlor despite his mother’s concerns the oil might drip on the rug. He never could understand how she was able to do her needlepoint while watching his father so closely.

Now he watched Rosa loosen the screw and move her hoop over an empty circle of linen. Eliza didn’t sew and neither had Cora. Weston was fascinated by the process. He hadn’t seen it done since his mother died. The movements were familiar but long buried. He couldn’t have said what came next, but each step unearthed memories, pictures of family life he thought he’d lost forever. Even the work on the pillowcase Rosa was stitching looked familiar.

“Where’d you get that design? I’ve seen napkins like that at Mr. Schwartz’s.”

“This design is from Zacatecas. I saw it on the way to the train station. It’s popular with Mr. Bradford’s customers.”

“So Mrs. Schwartz bought those from you? That’s your work?”

She shrugged. “I did the work. This flower doesn’t exist in Texas—unless I plant it on some napkins.” She pulled an emerald skein from her bag and separated out a string of floss.

“But they’re selling well, aren’t they? Clever idea.”

She bit off a piece of thread and tied it securely. “Not my idea. It was all Mr. Bradford’s.”

He studied her serene face and felt himself slipping again. “And you said yes because, after all, you have nothing else to do besides tame a wild ranch, get a garden in, shear sheep, adjust to American life—no wonder you were so bored.”

She smiled at his compliment.

“It’s not out of boredom I do this. It’s out of desperation. I still don’t think it’s going to be enough. Mr. Bradford has been generous, but we’re trying to make up for years of debt in one summer. Unless Louise knows something I don’t—”

“Speak of the devil.”

“What?!” Rosa looked to the gun in alarm. “Who is the devil?”

“Coming over the crossing. See? It’s Aunt Louise and Mr. Bradford.” He pointed, glad for the opportunity to distract her. Hearing of someone’s problems without volunteering to fix them went against his nature. But he couldn’t do that this time.