A Wild Red Rose (20 page)

Mrs. Beck nodded. “He was elderly, your second husband, but you were fond of him. Clinton and I keep in touch through e-mail when he is on the road.”

“Ah, yes, the hidden laptop. Then, I suppose you know I am tainted, too.”

“I know about your uncle, yes. The fault was not yours. You saved your sister from that evil man.”

“I could have saved more girls if I had spoken up sooner—Uncle Dewey’s own daughter, who knows how many others. I didn’t want anybody to know what he did to me. If Clint hadn’t forced the matter at my mother’s funeral, I would never have spoken out. I am a coward.” Renee kept her eyes on her empty plate. Her stomach churned.

“Not any more. You will testify against this terrible man. And if you feel yourself falter, Clinton has courage enough for both of you.”

“That’s true. Mrs. Beck…”

“Le-na, please, or Mama Lena is what my sons-in-law call me.” She patted Renee’s clenched hands with her be-ringed fingers.

“Lena, Clint is the kind of man who will marry me because of these babies. Not so long ago, I would have jumped at the chance for another rich husband. When we first met, I was bored. I went on the road with a simple cowboy for a lark—and to shock my family and friends. I’ve been doing that for years. If I’d known he had money, I would have dragged him to Vegas for a ceremony. I can’t do that to him now.”

“You are wrong about the babies. Before you left Hacienda Hidalgo, Clinton told me he would marry you even when he thought you carried another man’s child.”

Renee gave her a wavery smile. “That’s Clint. Always putting himself between trouble and a person who needs protection. But, I’ll be fine, really.”

“You know my son is brave and kind of heart. You should also know he is very, very stubborn, like his father, and could not be forced to marry anyone. Clinton is the man who tore up his Harvard MBA in front of my husband, told him to stuff the family business, and ran off to join the rodeo. They didn’t speak for months until Gunter offered him a contract stating Clint would have ten years of complete freedom and financial support if he returned to the Beck Corporation at the end of that time. The time has come for my son to settle down, and he wants to do that with you. Believe me, if Clinton did not love you, he would see that you and the children were cared for, but he would not put a ring on your finger.”

“That’s another thing—about caring for the babies. I doubt I can be a good mother. My own wasn’t much of an example.”

“Nonsense!” Lena Beck exclaimed. “Clinton has told me how well you got along with the children at the rodeos, how kind you were to Gracie Jones. He says you would protect your children with the ferocity of a tigress.”

“That’s certainly true. I’d never let someone hurt my children the way Uncle Dewey hurt me. I’d see the signs. I’d know and prevent it. As for other children, they don’t judge a person. A big smile, a comfortable lap, a very big chest, and a few soft words wins them over—along with a large bag of toys.”

“Exactly. You see, you already know some of the secrets of motherhood. My daughters and I can teach you more. You will not be alone in this. And if I do say so, Clinton will be an excellent father having learned from Gunter’s mistakes.”

“You don’t have a happy marriage, Lena?” Renee asked, twisting the straw of her milk carton between her fingers.

“Gunter and I have been together for fifty years, my dear. Considering how we met, we have been very good for each other. I grew up at a private school run by nuns as you did, but I was very obedient. Then, Papi sent me to a women’s college for the rest of my education. I was so sheltered it makes my daughters laugh. Shortly after my graduation, young, handsome, and very Anglo, Gunter Beck, came to arrange contracts with my father for agricultural products that have been raised on Hidalgo land for centuries. Papi invited him to dinner at our hacienda. With Gunter so very stiff and proper, my father allowed him to walk with me in the courtyard when Gunter asked him so very seriously if he could do so.”

Lena Beck wrinkled her nose. “I secretly hoped for someone with more fire who would come to my window at night and ride away with me like all romantic young women. We did go riding the next day with two of my father’s
vaqueros
right behind us. The courtship progressed very slowly, very formally. We were never left alone. Gunter asked my father for my hand before he asked me. I begged for time to consider the offer. I wanted to turn him down, of course. I could not imagine spending my life with this staid man. Papa approved of an alliance with the Beck family as good business, but he would not have forced me.”

“Yet you have been married for fifty years,” Renee marveled.

“That night, Santa Maria Magdalena came to me in my dreams and told me Gunter Beck had a great need for warmth only I could fill. The passion I craved lay just below his cold exterior. One does not ignore a saint. I discovered the truth of that on my wedding night. I do not believe Gunter has ever strayed, no matter how many foreign places he visits. When he teases me about getting messages from saints, I remind him he owes our marriage to Santa Maria.” Lena returned the smile she’d made blossom on Renee’s face.

“So, along came our daughters, Marisol and Annalise, then an ectopic pregnancy. I lost an ovary, nearly bled to death, and was told my chances for having more children were very slim. Gunter worried so about losing me that I started using a diaphragm, which failed to work when I was forty. Another vision told me I would have a son, a wonderful son. Renee, you must never turn down gifts from God.”

Renee touched her belly. “I haven’t. Even when I suspected what might be wrong with me, I did not consider abortion.” She laughed ruefully. “I guess the nuns got to me after all.”

“Yes. They have a way of doing that. So, only one question remains. Renee, do you love my son?” Lena looked directly into the eyes of the often-married Renee Niles Bouchard Hayes and waited.

Renee took a deep breath. “I love him so much that I know he should have a better bride. The best I could do for Clinton O. Beck is never to find out his middle name.”

Madalena Beck threw back her head and laughed. Her dangling earrings swung merrily. “Oh, that! Not only will you find out his middle name at the wedding, but my Gunter will insist the first boy born to you have it as his middle name. He is so very proud of his heritage. And now, since you and Clinton love each other, I suggest we go wedding dress shopping.

Chapter Twenty

“With that dark auburn hair, green is definitely your color, Renee. The gray silk was very attractive, but this is much better.” Madalena Beck nodded her approval.

Renee checked herself in the mirror of the nurses’ lounge. A shade of blue-green the color of butterfly wings, the wedding dress wrapped around and under her breasts, then belled out slightly to her knees. Lace dyed the exact color extended the length of the gown to mid-calf in a many-pointed hem. The sleeves were extended from her elbows to her wrists with the same lace. The fabric had some body, unlike the gray silk which clung to her belly. They’d found it on a mother-of-the-bride rack where styles for heftier women prevailed. She had no intention of standing in front of a strange justice of the peace looking pregnant. Ellensburg proved to be thin on Catholic priests, at least of that variety who would perform a rather irregular marriage without banns being read for a divorced woman who had married again without obtaining an annulment from the Church. They’d had to go with a civil ceremony performed by a justice of the peace only too happy to oblige the famous Clinton O. Beck.

Her hair hung straight and silky to her shoulders now, and her complexion did glow so much she had used little makeup—just a touch of smoky eye shadow with a hint of green, a bit of liner and mascara, and a lush, dark coral lipstick. She was as ready as she ever would be to marry Clinton O. Beck.

“And you, Norma Jean, should always wear blue with those gorgeous eyes of yours,” Lena Beck told the cowgirl more used to jeans than dresses.

Norma Jean Scruggs, so relaxed on a barrel horse or in bed with a man, squirmed in discomfort, and Renee laughed. “You do look wonderful. Thank you for being my bridesmaid.”

Norma Jean tugged at the skirt of a dress with a tighter fit and total lack of embellishments that suited her long, lean frame. “I’m kinda old to be anyone’s maid, but thanks for not makin’ me wear lace. Never been in a weddin’ before. Women don’t seem to like me as much as men do.”

“I know that feeling,” Renee assured her.

“I’d only do this for Clint because he’s the best.” Norma Jean squirmed again.

“He is, he definitely is. Are we ready, then?” Renee asked eager to go to Clint’s side.

“Oh my, no! We haven’t put on the finishing touches yet.” Lena Beck opened a long, flat box and unfolded what Renee mistook for a tablecloth. She shook out the swath of creamy lace and draped it over Renee’s hair. “The Hidalgo wedding veil worn by my grandmother, my mother, myself, and both my daughters. Here, let me pin it into place. We have hand-tied bouquets of yellow roses for both of you, and an extra yellow rose for your hair, Renee.”

The bride didn’t have the heart to tell her future mother-in-law that she would rather be bareheaded. “Funny, the Niles family has some history with yellow roses. My cousin’s wife would be so thrilled.”

“Yellow roses for Texas, of course,” Lena Beck amended. “I know they should be red. I think of you more as a wild, red rose like the ones in my courtyard, but we are too far away to use them. Gunter suggested the yellow roses and they do blend better with the dresses. And now for the jewelry. Clinton wanted you to have this set.”

She held out a box containing the Zuni parure. “Evidently, he has been carrying this around with his bullfighting gear since you left the hacienda. I hope it hasn’t been damaged. Snuffy had to go over to the arena to retrieve it along with Clint’s other belongings.”

“I can’t believe Clint bought it for me. I saw this set at a stop we made our first week together, and he refused to buy it no matter how much I pouted. The only piece missing is the ring.”

“Snuffy has the ring since he’s acting as best man today. Let’s get you decked out in this. Then, I’ll go tell the men we are ready.” Lena fastened the gorgeous silver and green stone sunburst around the bride’s neck. Renee snapped on the bracelet—even though the lace of her sleeve hid it—and placed the earrings in her lobes.

Lena gave her a big, encouraging smile and scurried off in her festive red suit, her jewelry a-clanking. Norma Jean followed doing a fake bridesmaid’s walk down the hall, twitching her tail at the interns and orderlies she passed. Renee took a moment by herself. With the addition of the Zuni jewelry and veil, she now resembled a hybrid Hispanic-Indian pregnant bride, not her best look of the three weddings, but each item was filled with meaning and goodwill. So what, no photographers lingered around.

Clint had been out of the ICU for only a day. Fortunately, the clerk who handled marriage licenses, a big rodeo fan, came personally to the hospital for the groom’s signature and expedited the paperwork after getting a signed glossy from the Bull Bomber himself and a great tale to tell around town. Being at the hospital every day, they’d had no trouble getting blood tests. All that Renee Niles Bouchard Hayes had to do was sail smoothly down the hospital corridor and claim her happy ending.

The lounge door creaked open. Gunter Beck, Clint’s father, entered. He wore an expensively tailored gray business suit with the signature Texas yellow rose in the lapel.

Taken up in Lena’s whirlwind of preparations, Renee had met him only briefly. He’d been busy elsewhere and apologized very little for that. She saw where Clint got his chiseled good looks, though Gunter’s eyes were a lighter, colder blue, his lips thinner, and his blond hair long ago faded to white. At seventy-five, the man’s erect posture had not given an inch to the passage of time.

“Did you come to walk me down the aisle?” Renee asked with a smile on her lips.

“No. We have a small matter to discuss before the nuptials take place, some papers to sign. Please sit down, read over these documents, and put your signature here, here, and here.” He drew large X’s with an expensive pen.

“A prenuptial agreement?” So, Clint’s notation about paperwork concerned more than getting a marriage license. She recognized the form well from her first two marriages, which she’d left with nothing except a few luxurious gifts. Why should now be any different? Why had she believed it would be?

“Of course. Clinton’s brain may be addled by years of playing with bulls, and once Lena gets a message from her saint, she cannot be stopped, but I must look out for my son and my family business. Having been married twice before to wealthy men, I am sure you are familiar with the procedure. The first set states you will have no claim to the assets of the Beck Corporation, family lands, antiques, or heritage items should you divorce my son. Considering the circumstances I have added two riders. Please read over them carefully.”

Renee flipped to the first rider and read aloud the key phrase buried in legalese. “In case of divorce, the undersigned will relinquish full custody of any children produced by the marriage to Clinton O. Beck, who shall determine the amount of contact, visitation, and shared vacation to which any offspring will be exposed.”

The second rider appeared to be more of a chart spelling out how much the undersigned would receive in alimony according to a sliding scale adjusted by the cause of the divorce and the years of marriage. The lowest amount, still a comfortable living for most people, mentioned divorce for adultery within two years. Desertion came second. Mutual consent topped the chart with the biggest bucks, but this was subdivided by the years of marriage completed. Renee dropped the fine Mont Blanc pen Gunter presented to her onto the stained plastic table of the lounge.

“I wouldn’t balk at this point, Mrs. Hayes. Should you walk out the best you can hope for is child support—if you can prove the children belong to Clint. If they do, we shall certainly sue for custody based on your past lurid sexual behavior. My private investigator had no trouble gathering sworn testimony from the personal trainer mentioned in your first divorce. Your adult former stepchildren were quite helpful in pointing out men you associated with after their father’s death. Oh, your family closed ranks, and Bodey Landrum, whom I should have thought would want to help his friend, tossed my man out, but we have more than enough witnesses to your foul morals to win a custody battle.” Gunter Beck offered the pen again.