His Temporary Wife

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2014 by Leslie P. García.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission
from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8094-4

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8094-9

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8095-2

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8095-6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations,
events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination
or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons
(living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © iStockphoto.com/katielittle25 

Working for minimum wage at a retail building supply store while raising children
and crossing the border from Laredo into Nuevo Laredo may seem to be an adventure,
but it drains a body of dreams and the energy to chase them. Fortunately, at a difficult
point in my life, I met Maria Eugenia Lopez. Jeannie was bubbly and energetic, friendly—perky,
even—all the things I wasn’t. A gifted woman, Jeannie put herself through college
and shared her music and writing with me. Most of all, she kept telling me I could.
I could write. I could go to college in spite of four young children and no money.
I could.

Without Jeannie I couldn’t have, or wouldn’t have known that I could. Jeannie, thanks
for being the friend who listened to my writing, and let me listen to your songs and
poems—the work we always promised each other would be published “someday.” Thanks
for teaching me there really was a someday, and that because of you—it’s here.

We live in a world where there are at least two truths: there’s an app for everything,
and there’s a country song for everything.
His Temporary Wife
let me indulge my passion for country music while telling the story of Esmeralda
Salinas and Rafael Benton, and the very different roads that bring them together—for
love or for money.

I owe special thanks to author and karaoke guru MJ Schiller. I don’t do karaoke, but
if I did, I’d do it like her. She taught me everything I know about the practice,
and I’m grateful for that. By the way, there’s a song for that—Toby Keith and Jimmy
Buffet’s “Too Drunk to Karaoke.” A song for everything, I tell you!

I’ve lived in Laredo for thirty plus years, and I eat out occasionally. But not often
enough or widely enough that I could decide where former Laredoans would eat if they
came back for a brief visit. I can’t name all my Facebook friends who commented, but
want to thank Norma Y. Flores, Mary Lopez Perez, Jamie Ortiz, Lourdes Jasso, Emma
Perales Gonzalez, Gina Oceguera, and Erica P. Salinas for their boisterous discussion
of the nominated restaurants. To find out where “real” Laredoans would go after a
lengthy absence, read on.

Without my sister Victoria M. Potter, I’d crash any book three or four times and never
recover it, and that doesn’t account for the times I e-mail her in the middle of the
night to look something over. She’s a skillful editor, a great writer—if I’d just
give her the time to write—and an incredible sister.

Finally, I can’t give enough credit to my Crimson Romance editors Tara Gelsomino,
Julie Sturgeon, and Jess Verdi. For most of my life, I wanted to be able to say “my
editors,” but it was more a product of romanticized hope than an acceptance that editors
are key to good writing. Tara, thanks for wanting
His Temporary Wife
. Julie, how you can keep me organized and more or less functioning on schedule, I’m
not sure. And Jess—wow. Your ability to spot both the gaping holes and the missed
punctuation in a story astounds. Without your help,
His Temporary Wife
would be a rough draft rather than a finished story. Thanks.

Leslie

Esmeralda Salinas leaned forward over the wheel of the rented pickup and peered at
the road ahead. It disappeared between two sheer cuts, dotted on both sides with scrub
cedar and large rocks that looked likely to fall onto the road at any minute.

In spite of the cold air blasting out of the air conditioning vents, blowing loose
tendrils of hair around her forehead, beads of sweat trickled down her cheeks.

“And I thought I could drive anywhere!” she muttered and glanced momentarily into
the rearview mirror, checking the horse trailer behind her, carrying all she had of
her past. She couldn’t see her Appaloosa mare, Domatrix, of course, but the late-model
trailer seemed to be riding well and taking the curves.

She glanced at her dash and gulped air. Three, maybe four minutes more of the treacherous
Hill Country back road and she’d come out on the state blacktop taking her into tiny
Truth, Texas. Taking her home—if you could call a town you’d never been in, home.

Her tension eased when she turned gently onto the asphalt. She could have gone a longer
way around and spared herself a lot of stress and worry for the mare’s safety, but
she had been in the Hill Country years ago and hadn’t thought the “hills” were particularly
frightening. A boyfriend had been driving then, and she couldn’t say she remembered
the narrow roads, the twists, or much of anything.

With relief she reached out and turned on the radio, immediately picking up a country
station out of San Antonio. The station reached most of central Texas and had been
her favorite back in Rose Creek.

She knew the song immediately and joined in, reveling in the music. A car on the other
side of the two-lane road passed and the driver waved. She waved back, something she’d
done routinely since she got off the interstate. Seemed all the drivers were friendly,
even more than they’d been in Rose Creek. Maybe she could truly find a home here.

The next song blasted out, a song that had been huge for the singer Cody Benton. “Afraid
for You” had rocketed up the charts to number one, and Cody was tagged as country
music’s next goddess. But she’d died in a drug-induced stupor, right here in Truth.
Esme slowed as she coasted over a hill and passed the sign welcoming her to town.
Goose bumps peppered her arms as she noticed the large billboard “In Memory of Cody
Benton,” and her anger pricked. She didn’t remember Cody being born here or living
here for much of her short life. Couldn’t the town find a more tasteful salute to
the woman than claiming her memory?

Still, Cody had brought Esme here in a way, so maybe she shouldn’t be so judgmental.
She bit her lip. She’d planned on leaving Rose Creek for some time, planned on going
somewhere bigger, with women who didn’t know and fear her, and men who didn’t look
at her with way too much interest. She’d made some poor personal choices over the
years and just knew it was time to go. She’d been surprised and touched that her formal
rival, Luz Wilkinson—Luz Estes now, she reminded herself, glad that it didn’t hurt
at all—held a small party the night before she left. Even the town veterinarian came,
a clear sign of forgiveness for her trying to snag the doctor’s husband for her own.

She’d chosen to come here to Truth because she’d heard her aunt was here now, and
because of a late-night interview she’d seen with Cody Benton shortly before the singer’s
death. Cody had been vamping with the host, who’d asked her why she was spending so
much time in a “one-horse town.”

Cody had laughed and answered that she owned two horses herself, so that problem was
solved. And then she’d winked, “If your life’s been a lie, maybe you should try a
little truth.”

Whether or not the line had been rehearsed, Esmeralda couldn’t forget it. And when
she decided for sure to leave Rose Creek, she headed northwest without a moment of
indecision.

Esmeralda saw her destination ahead on the right and slowed almost subconsciously.
So here she was, about to drop in on the aunt she hardly knew. Tina Cervantes, her
mother’s sister, had visited three or four times over twenty-odd years. Once she’d
gone to college, Esmeralda hadn’t seen her aunt again. She could count on both hands
the times they’d spoken on the phone, too. Tina had called to wish her a happy birthday
about four months ago, not really near her birthday. Esmeralda didn’t tell her she
was two months late; she just relished the brief contact with the woman she always
thought would have been a better mother than her own had been.

And now here she was, jobless and homeless, hoping to find the roots she’d struggled
to cut when she’d left home back in Laredo, fleeing from cold parents and an abusive
brother, heading up the I-35 corridor until she settled in Rose Creek. Gregarious
and independent, Tina always insisted that Esmeralda should visit. Once, long ago,
she’d offered her house, “any time, just come on over.” Tina was living in Chicago
then, with a man she’d never mentioned before, and Esmeralda would never have considered
going. Besides, she’d been perfectly happy in Rose Creek with its proximity to San
Antonio, and its easy driving distance to Laredo for those infrequent visits to her
parents.

She turned carefully onto the side street running along the weathered-wood look exterior
of Tía’s. The neon sign outside the club was unlit, but pictured a smiling woman surrounded
by an explosion of stars.

Somehow the sign sent confidence surging through her. If Tina billed herself as the
town’s “aunt,” or
tía
, then surely she’d be delighted to have her only real niece turn up out of the blue.
Right?

Apparently the business catered to an evening crowd; only two cars were in the parking
lot and their proximity to the side door suggested employees, not clients. Esmeralda
parked carefully, taking up a lot of space, but being sure delivery trucks or anyone
cutting through the large parking lot could maneuver around the trailer. She disliked
leaving the mare unattended, but couldn’t see driving out to the farm where she’d
found a stall for rent until she’d spoken to her aunt.

When she opened the side window, Domatrix immediately stuck her velvety nose in the
opening and nickered plaintively.

“Five minutes,” Esme promised. “I’ll get you out of here before you know it!” Gently
pushing the mare’s nose back in, she fastened the panel, drew a deep breath, and headed
off to find her aunt.

The front door was locked. She should have just tried the back. Esme glanced around.
Across the street, a restaurant had customers going in and coming out. Probably the
social hub of the town, she decided. The three—three!—bars in Truth undoubtedly catered
to the cowboy and tourist crowd that wouldn’t be in town until nightfall. Next to
the restaurant, a neat, cheeky little salon sported a sign claiming to offer “Truth
In Beauty.” She smiled and retraced her steps, seeing a large pickup, dark and gleaming,
slide into a nearby space.