Surrender to Love (37 page)

Ah, hell, he scoffed, turning away, even if she would have him, he didn’t have a thing to offer her – no real stake of his own, no decent amount of land to work.  He hadn’t had much of a chance to do anything with those ten acres over the past two years.  The house definitely needed repairs, too, and the barn roof needed work.  As usual, more money he didn’t have.  Money he sure wasn’t going to ask her for.

“Now that the Americans have been captured and charged with the death of the field hand, what do you intend to do now that you are no longer a wanted man?” Luís questioned after a pause as he drew a
cigarrito
from his silver case.  “Will you return to America?”

“I’m staying here,” Michael answered, swallowing the hard knot in his throat.

“And Sabine?”

He leaned against the window casing as comfortably as his pains would allow.  He hadn’t asked her – hadn’t asked of her plans for fear that she would tell him she’
d be leaving.  She had money now, and how could he expect her to be content with a dirt farmer who still didn’t have a cent to his name?

His fist drummed out an idle rhythm in time with his frustration.  But he needed her,
dammit.  He needed her so badly it hurt whenever he took the time to think about it – and he had thought about it often over the past few weeks.  Thought of how it would be to spend a lifetime with her.  Thought about the children they might have some day…the love…the laughter…

Being one for eternity.

It seemed so right to him.  It should seem so to her, too…shouldn’t it?

Well, he decided, releasing a sigh as he turned from the window, standing around and contemplating his feelings weren’t going to get him anywhere.  They weren’t going to get the answers to the questions that had kept him up at night as he restlessly paced the floor
until he thought he’d scream.

“There’s only one way to find out, I guess,” Michael replied decisively.

And to do it, he’d have to dive in headfirst…and pray like hell for the best.

XXX

She stood on the veranda, her muted cries reaching his ears as he paused in the doorway.  The sound struck him like a blow to the stomach and he waited hesitantly in the distance, watching silently as she hugged herself tightly against her pain.

As he approached she faced away, swiping at the tears that trailed across her cheeks.  Tears…Michael couldn’t help thinking of all the times he had brought her to them.  Tears of anger.  Tears of frustration.

Damn.  Would she be able to look past it all?  Would she be able to look past it and accept his love?  Cherish him in her heart for always?

Or would she turn and walk away?

He slipped his right arm around her waist, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief as she nestled against him.  He wanted to make it right for her.  He wanted to make it all right so nothing could hurt her ever again.

“What’s wrong?”

Her hand fluttered a page weakly before letting it fall to her side.  “My mother,” she answered softly, and Michael’s heart fell to the floor.

He had never considered family.  Not really.  He had always assumed she was on her own, for the most part.  She’d be sure to want to return to them.

But he wanted her to stay.  His selfish side wanted her with him so badly he might even consider begging her not to go.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he ignored the dull ache that pounded in his left shoulder as he gathered her to him, his lips brushing lightly at the curls along her temple.

“Papa’s dead, Michael,” she said simply, her voice no more than a whisper as she ran her fingers over the muscles of his forearm.  “I’ve known for over a month, and, suddenly, today, it occurred to me I would never see him again.

“And, Mama – “  Her voice broke as she moved closer to him.  “Aunt Marie answer
ed my message.  Mama’s still not right.  I don’t think she ever will be.  She loved Papa so much.  But my aunt told me everything, answered my questions.”

Sabine wrapped his arm more closely around her, desperate for its warmth, its strength.

“They always knew I was Clinton Markham’s property, but they never knew he was my father,” she whispered.  “And they loved me, Michael.  Despite their faults, I know Mama and Papa really loved me, and they only did what they thought best.

“But at least Mama knows I’m happy here, that I belong.  She wants me to stay.  So do I,” she added quietly.

She turned to face him, her eyes tear-bright, and suddenly he wished he could hold her close, wrap her up in his arms and keep her there – safe – forever.

She leaned against the railing, looking to him with that gaze that always managed to capture his soul.  So strange, it seemed, for Fate to bring them together.  Two different people.  Two different worlds.  But it didn’t matter anymore.  It was just a memory.  A dream.  And the reality was now - here – right in front of him.  A woman whose heart had made him come alive.  A gentle, emerald-eyed woman who had given him faith enough to love…and who loved in return without an ounce of reserve.

“You know,” Michael said softly as he leaned against one of the supports of the veranda.  “I’ve done a lot of things in the past I wished I hadn’t.  Except for you.  I haven’t regretted you for a second.”

She smiled that sweet, innocent smile the brightened both her face and his life, and Michael felt his heart surge as she reached for his hand, her fingers closing around his as she stepped toward him.

“The night you left, a part of me died,” he said reluctantly as he broke from her gaze, and he felt a shiver course the length of his spine at the touch of her hand along his jaw.  “I wanted you to understand.  I wanted you to listen.  I never wanted you to go – “

The brush of her fingertips against his lips silenced his words, and he closed his eyes and kissed her palm, the sweet smell of her lavender-scented skin enveloping his senses, charging his urgency.

“I meant it when I said I loved you,” he admitted, his voice lowering  as his gaze locked hers.  “And I know I’ve messed up a lot of things between us.  I never said I was perfect, Sabine, but I want a chance to make it right.”

Michael drew a nervous breath, exhaling as he ran a hand quickly through his hair, and looked out over the countryside.  This was a hell of a lot tougher than he thought it would be.  He’d thought asking this question was going to be the easiest thing he had ever done.

Right.

“What I’m trying to say is,” he came out in a rush, “I’d like you to stay.  Make me proud and be my wife, Sabine.  I can’t offer you a big house or fancy parties.  I don’t even have a ring.  But I’ll do everything I can to make you happy, and - “

Her arms were already winding around his neck before he had finished, her fingers entwining in his hair as her softness pressed against him.

Groaning inwardly, Michael surrendered to the feathery softness of her lips as they touched him, whispering of her acceptance, and he pulled her to him, holding her tightly as his one arm would allow – wishing desperately he could bring her so close that they might eventually become one person.

Sabine.  His wife.  His friend.

The one person who had managed to make him feel whole.

The sweet soprano of Consuelo’s voice reached his ears, her song drifting on the late autumn breeze as she rounded the corner of the
casa grande,
a basket with the last of the year’s flowers dangling from her wrist.

Reluctantly Michael broke from Sabine, his hand leisurely trailing the length of her back before resting at her waist.  She looked to him, her eyes shining with the love, the faith, the trust that he never thought could be his.

But it was…for an eternity.

“Do you dance, Mrs. Pierson,” Michael asked, drawing her close once again.

“As a matter of fact,” Sabine replied, smiling as her fingers tugged playfully at a lock of hair that fell against the collar of his shirt, “I do.  And I’d dance with you forever.”

The following is an excerpt from

TAMING DELILAH

The next historical romance by
Cordelia Sands

Set to be released in September 2013

Chapter One

Chicago

May 1887

“I ain’t goin’.”

“I don’t exactly see where you have a choice,” the judge commented nonchalantly as he clasped his hands comfortably across his burgeoning waistline.

Defiantly, Delilah St. John stamped her foot against the floorboards, planting her clenched fists firmly on her hips.  To hell with the law.  And to hell with this judge.  No way was she going to let this…this horse’s
ass
manipulate her into some god-forsaken scheme to make her a “respectable” woman.

And while Judge
MacLeary was on the topic, what was so wrong with her int eh first place that he thought she needed reform?  She was a law abiding citizen…for the most part.  Never killed nobody or caused a riot in the streets.  Never squandered what little money she had on gin or traded her body for scraps of food like so many others she knew.

All right, she conceded begrudgingly as she watched him warily through the narrowed slits of her eyes.  Maybe she
had
picked a pocket or two…but it was never from common, working men – always from t eh well-to-do who had more money than she could ever dream possible.  A Robin Hood of sorts, Dee had often reminded herself with a smug smile.  A Robin Hood who borrowed from the rich and loaned it indefinitely to the poor….  And they didn’t come much poorer than her.

But what was this about sending her west to be some man’s “household help”?  “Give her an opportunity to better herself”?  This
MacLeary fella must definitely be an escapee from the madhouse.  Apparently he didn’t realize Delilah St. John wasn’t the complete idiot he thought her to be.  A pretty underhanded attempt at slavery this offer was, she decided, and she wasn’t about to stand here another minute and let this man think she could be easily fooled into believing there was a pot of gold at the end of that rainbow he called Montana.

She continued to look at him, and
MacLeary averted his gaze to the papers laid before him, his hands shuffling through them casually as he perused their contents.

“How old are you, Miss St. John?”

“Nineteen.  I’ll be twenty next month.”

“A little old to be running the streets and picking pockets, don’t you think?”

The fading lilt of his Irish brogue ground further on De’s nerves as his barb hit its mark in the emptiness of her heart, and her gaze dropped tiredly to the fringed end of her dark braid.  Yes, she was getting a bit too old to simply be a face in the crowd, she admitted reluctantly, but she sure had no intention of lowering herself to work in any of the far-too-numerous whorehouses she walked past every day.  She might be a common thief, but she wasn’t so desperate as to lay on her back for a bunch of men just to assure she had a roof over her head and a guaranteed meal once or twice a day.

“Parents?”

“Ma died when I was ten.  Ain’t never met my pa.”

Immediately she regretted her thoughtless comment, cringing inwardly as she cursed herself for giving in to his questioning. It wasn’t any of his business.
MacLeary saw a dozen or more cases just like hers every day.  All the same stories.  All the same excuses.  Why should he bother to take any interest in her? She knew what she was.  Street trash.  She’d heard the comments; she knew her place.

“There’s nothing else holding you here,” he said.  “You could make a fresh start, Miss St. John.  Learn a trade.  Find a husband.”

“Ain’t going to learn much of a trade on a cattle ranch, now, will I,” she snapped.  “And I’m not in the market for same man, either, so you can forget that.”

“You’re aware of the alternative? Two years as opposed to one?”

Dee glared at him. Two years in prison would be better than a man any day, and a whole lot safer that the vast unknown of Out There.  Out There was beyond the streets of Chicago where she had no control. Out There was where she heard stories of the murderous hordes of Indians who were just waiting for a girl like her.

Not in a million years.  Delilah St. John might be the type who fared well by her wits in the slums, but she wasn’t going to stick her neck out for some great Tomorrow that might never come.

Some great Tomorrow that would
never
come.

So there was prison.  Hell, she scoffed, if she had managed over twenty years on the streets where life didn’t mean spit, a few years of confinement would almost be a deserved vacation.

“Alright then,” MacLeary conceded with a sigh, and nodded to the bailiff.