Love's Haven (13 page)

“What was the building’s function?” she asked. “Was it a homestead?”

“A trading post, I think. I’ve found bullets, broken glassware, tools, rusty nails, even a shoe sole.”

“Can you put a date on the place?”

“Never have. You’d think a document somewhere would mention it. Believe me, I’ve looked. Searched every book in my library and the one downtown.
Nada.
Not a word.”

Brock pulled the truck under a huge old cottonwood tree. In tandem, he and Mara leaned toward the baby and began to unbuckle her from the seat. For the first time since Todd’s death, Mara knew a heady sense of hope. Within her grasp she had both a dream and a plan. More than that,
she felt the promise of building a future—without anyone’s charity.

At the recognition of that freedom, she looked up at Brock, the man who had somehow pointed her toward it. He was gathering Abby into his arms and settling her wobbly head against his chest. Holding the baby securely with one hand, he used the other to tuck blankets and quilts tightly around her little body. As he slid out of the pickup, he brushed a kiss across Abby’s forehead.

At the simple gesture, Mara felt an unexpected ripple race down the backs of her legs. Brock’s lips had touched Abby. His large hands held and comforted the baby. His chest supported her head. His muscled arms cradled her weight.

Mara stared, stunned at the realization rocketing through her. The moment Brock’s mouth had left Abby’s skin, Mara had wanted to take her baby and press her own lips to that spot. A sudden urge came over her to bury her nose in Abby’s blankets just to smell Brock’s scent. Just to know she was touching places he had touched.

Dear Lord,
she prayed silently.
Help me! What is happening? This can’t be right. I can’t be feeling this!
Despite her prayer, Mara held onto the pickup door handle for support as she watched Brock amble toward the adobe ruin. His long legs moved in an easy stride, and his boots kicked up little spirals of dust. The tip of Abby’s white-capped head appeared just over one broad shoulder, her cheek resting comfortably on his sheepskin jacket.

“I figure this was the entrance,” Brock called, turning back toward Mara. “It’s a wide opening, and there are a few old planks lying around that might have been the board-walk.”

She could only stare.

“You coming?” he asked. “There’s nothing to be scared of. Rattlers are all hibernating this time of year.”

Realizing how foolish she looked, Mara started toward
him, willing common sense back into her head. But as she approached, Brock’s eyes surveyed her up and down.

“You know, Mara, you look good for so soon after having a baby. I figured it would take you a long time to get over what you went through.”

Mara tried to squelch the flush that had spread across her cheeks. He was standing just inside the ruin, one hand holding Abby and the other stretched out to her. How could she be having these unacceptable feelings and thoughts in broad daylight, in a baggy old sweater, in a body that had given birth only a few weeks before?

It just wasn’t possible. But when she took his hand and felt his fingers weave through hers, she knew it was more than possible. Her breath trembled as she lifted her focus to his face.

“This must have been the front of the store,” he said, speaking to her eyes. “When I was a kid, I found an old coffee grinder in this room. Rusted, but you could tell what it was.”

Mara nodded, fighting the urge to move closer to him. “Did you find anything else? Signs? Scraps of fabric?”

As if sensing her unspoken turmoil, he pulled her toward him. It hardly mattered that they wore coats and sweaters against the December chill. As his arm grazed hers, Mara felt as warm as if it were midsummer.

“I carried everything back to the ranch house,” he replied, looking at her mouth. “It’s in my workshop. Labeled.”

She swallowed. “Did you make diagrams?”

“Yeah.”

“Done any digging?”

“No.”

Neither spoke again. Neither looked at the ruin. Or the baby. Brock ran his eyes over Mara’s face, across her lips, down her neck. Her fingers gripped his so tightly they throbbed.

“Mara…” he said in a husky voice. “Listen, I…”

“Brock,” she said softly, “I’m…so…” Mara tried again to swallow down the lump in her throat. What was she? Afraid, uncertain, eager? “I’m very…”

“Mara, you and I—”

“I think it’s—”

“Things are—” He paused. “I’m sorry. I keep interrupting you. What I’m trying to say is…if you…”

She shook her head as his words faded off, his attention riveted to her lips. “No, it’s really…um…. Do you…do you suppose there might be a record of the trading post in the county courthouse?” She pulled her hand out of his, swung away from him and headed across the bumpy ground. He had almost kissed her. She knew it. But it would have been a mistake. A terrible mistake. They could never have gotten past it. What little goodwill they had built would come tumbling down. She couldn’t let it happen.

“The deeds office?” she asked as she bent to examine an odd-looking stone. “Have you looked there?”

“No.” Holding the baby, he walked in the opposite direction to study a fallen wall. “I guess there could be an old title in the record books.”

“Or a survey.” She hugged herself tightly, fighting the dizzy sensation that had swept over her. If she hadn’t pulled away, he really would have kissed her. And she would have let him.

Dear God, where are You? You’re supposed to help me! This is more than I can bear. It’s too much!

“Next time I’m in Las Cruces,” he said, “I’ll check it out.”

“Good idea.” Trembling, she walked along the length of crumbled wall. How could this irrational, illogical thing be happening to her? She felt like a child—lost, uncertain, even afraid. And she felt like a woman for the first time in
months. Her body tingled and her breath would hardly come. Had she ever felt this shaken with her husband…her comfortable, teddy-bear Todd?

Where was Todd at a time like this? She needed him! How dare he die and leave her in turmoil. How dare he bail out on his wife and daughter when his calming presence was required. Mara clenched her jaw and marched around the perimeter of the ruin without seeing anything.

Her parents had deserted her when she was six. How could they die in a car wreck just like that? She had needed them. Then Todd did the same thing. Vanished from her life. Would everyone?

Is this the kind of life God had planned for her? One heartbreaking loss after another? Where was her Heavenly Father when she needed Him most? She felt as though she was careening down a mountain road in a car without brakes. Someone was supposed to help her—and that someone was God.

Mara had begged the Lord to help her forgive Brock. Evidently He had reshaped and softened her hard heart enough to allow this man the grace he didn’t deserve. But this was far enough! God was supposed to stop at forgiveness—not let her go recklessly running into Brock’s arms. What kind of a crazy plan was that?

It wasn’t God’s plan. That was certain. And if it wasn’t God’s plan, it had to be Satan’s—and Mara wanted nothing to do with it. Brock was a temptation. He was wrong for her. Everything about him had to be resisted.

She could hear the man talking somewhere in the distance, explaining his theories about the old trading post. She ventured a glance at him, and instantly another chill ran through her. Oh, no. This was not good.

If Todd were around, he would laugh and tell a joke and everything would feel normal. But he had to go and die, didn’t he? He had to leave his wife with a belly full of baby
and a pile of debt. Now look. She was living with Brock! Brock Barnett—the man she had resented and hated through all those many months of terrible grief and loss. And she was gazing like a lost sheep into his brown eyes and aching for him to take her in his arms and kiss her.

Why God? Why, why, why?

“Back here it looks like there might have been a wood-burning stove at one time,” Brock was saying. He had stepped through the doorway of the main room and into the quarters behind. “There’s a hole in the wall where the pipe would have gone. Maybe somebody lived here. Do you reckon the trader’s family made their home at the back of his store?”

Mara scowled at the ground. She didn’t want to chat with Brock. She didn’t want any of this. She couldn’t want it. Couldn’t want him.

“I guess they could have,” she answered. “It wouldn’t be unusual.”

“Then there ought to be a trash pile somewhere. Todd told me those are the richest digging places. You can tell a lot from someone’s garbage, can’t you?”

“Depends.”

“Do you suppose we could date the place if we found some old bottles or china plates or something?”

“Maybe.” She stepped over the raised threshold between the front room and the back.

Brock was standing by the back wall, looking through a hole that had once been a window. A fragment of wood frame remained, nothing else. “I think this was the bedroom,” he said.

Mara almost choked. She wanted him to hand over her daughter and then turn over his keys. She wanted to drive to Sherry’s house, lay Abby in a crib and bury herself in bed where she wouldn’t have to see Brock Barnett or hear him or smell him ever again.

“If this was your bedroom,” he was saying, “you could lie in bed and look right out the window at those cliffs.”

“Why on earth would I want to look at a blank wall?” She realized her voice sounded harsher than she had intended.

“The cliffs aren’t blank. They’re a canvas of shadow and light.” He glanced at her. “Come here.”

When she didn’t move, he stepped over and took her hand. At his touch, a shower of sparks scattered down her spine. No! Not again! Moving as stiffly as a wooden puppet, she followed him to the window. There she removed her fingers from his and tucked her hand safely under her arm.

“See, Mara, the cliffs protected the trading post from the mountain winds.” His voice was low, almost hypnotic. “At sunrise, these cliffs are a deep purple. Velvety purple-black like an overripe plum. At dusk when the setting sun shines on them, they change from bright pink to beet-red. At noon, they’re stark white. In the summer sun, you touch a bare rock and your fingertips just about blister. You have to watch for scorpions and rattlers, too, when you go up.”

“You’ve been up there?” Mara craned her neck, trying to see the top of the enormous bluff. “To the top?”

“It’s where I train. I climb—”

“You climb these cliffs?” Todd’s face flashed before her eyes. She could hear the animation in his voice.
Brock trains all the time. He’s got cliffs on his ranch where he practices. He’s good, Mara. Brock knows what he’s doing.

“Yeah, I climb here,” Brock admitted. “At least I did. This is a good place to work on technique. It’s a fifth-class rock face, which means you need ropes and special gear. Every year or two I’ve gone to a rock-climbing school. It can get to be an expensive hobby.”

One that Todd should never have taken up, Mara thought. And he wouldn’t have, if not for Brock. She
studied him as she remembered her husband and ached to ask all the unanswered questions. How had Todd fallen? Why had he fallen? And why hadn’t his best friend saved him? Brock could answer those questions if Mara would let him. But she would never ask. She had to shut it away—that final day of her husband’s life. If she knew, if she felt Todd’s pain, if she heard the story from this man’s mouth, all the agony would return. She couldn’t relive it. She had to move on.

“Do you plan to keep climbing, Brock?” she asked, turning to face him.

His hand stroked over the form of her daughter’s sleeping body. “Does it matter to you, Mara?”

“You answer my question.”

“Climbing helps me relax and release tension. When I’m up on those cliffs, I feel a peace I can’t touch anyplace else.” He looked down at Abby. “Yeah, I guess I can see myself climbing again.”

Mara stared at him, a whirlwind of emotion tearing through her. Was it the death of her parents…or the loss of her husband…or the fear of abandonment…or the insecurity of her future? Or was it this man himself? Would losing Brock be too much to bear? Or would it serve both of them right?

Mara cut off the answer to her question before it had time to form. It was only Abby’s future that mattered.

“Well,” she said evenly, “if you’re planning to continue climbing cliffs, I hope you’ve updated your will to include my daughter.”

B
rock lifted his head to study the hues of gray, gold and pink mingled in the rock face he had scaled countless times. He knew the easiest routes up the slab, where balance and friction were more essential than brute strength. And he knew the more challenging paths that followed the natural line of cracks. These required such techniques as smearing, edging, clinging and fist-jamming. He had often gone up the cliff alone; he had led skilled companions; he had guided groups of novice climbers. More than once, he had successfully free-soloed the cliff using neither rope nor equipment. He was never careless nor casual, but he understood the soaring wall of stone so well it seemed like a comfortable old friend.

Yet to Mara—standing beside him in the ruins of the adobe house—the precipice represented death. He understood that, too. And for the first time in his life, another person’s feelings mattered more than his own.

“I have updated my will,” he told her quietly. In his arms, he held Mara’s baby, a soft, cuddled bundle who knew no better than to trust him instinctively. “Two weeks ago in Las Cruces I met with my lawyer to discuss the situation. A few days later I approved the revisions. When I die, my estate will belong to Abby…and to you, Mara.”

At the simplicity of Brock’s statement, Mara’s expression softened. She closed her eyes for a moment. “It’s not that I don’t care what happens to you,” she said softly. “I would never want…I mean, I’m hoping that nothing…”

“You just want to make sure your daughter has a future.”

“That’s right.” She looked up again, her eyes searching. “Do you understand?

“If I’m going to keep spelunking and parasailing and whitewater-rafting and rock-climbing,” he said, laying his cheek on the baby’s head, “you want to know you and Abby are secure.”

“I’m not hoping something happens to you, Brock. But I just don’t—”

“You don’t trust a man who would let Abby’s father fall off a cliff.” He spat out the words, and there was nothing he could do to hide his own pain. “There are a lot of things you don’t know, Mara. Did Todd tell you that he and I practiced on this slab until he could just about run up the thing?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Did you know that I bought two of every piece of equipment so Todd and I both would be outfitted safely? Did you know he made up for any lack of dexterity with his uncanny sense of technique? Todd could climb just about anything.”

She gave a mirthless laugh. “Obviously not the cliffs at Hueco Tanks.”

“Oh, he scaled those, too. We were on our way down when he fell.” The image of that terrifying moment flashed before Brock once again. “It was late in the afternoon. Since it was getting dark, we decided not to rappel down. Rappelling can take a lot of time, because you have to secure the ropes, anchors and slings. Todd was afraid we’d have to leave some of the equipment behind, and he never
liked to do that. We checked to see that the route was free of loose, rotten rock, and we began down-climbing the crag without ropes. I led, since I’d been at the Tanks a few times before. So we started down from the top, face out with our backs to the wall—”

“That’s enough,” Mara broke in. “How many times do I have to tell you not to talk about it, Brock? I don’t want to hear this. I can’t. I know what happened, okay? Todd fell.”

“Not there, at the top. It was later.” Unwilling to buckle to her denial, he kept talking. “The angle got steeper, so we knew we had to turn around and face the cliff wall. I decided we should use a rope at that point, just to be safe. I tossed mine up to Todd.” Brock could almost see the moment when his friend had caught the end of the rope. “We had it tightly stretched between us, and he was working to anchor it—”

“Stop it!” Mara cried.

“You need to know what happened.”

“No, I don’t. It won’t change anything.”

“Why won’t you hear me, Mara?”

“Why should I? To learn how Todd suffered? To be able to picture his pain more clearly? Why do you insist on telling me?”

“So you’ll know, so you won’t just imagine what happened for the rest of your life.”

Tears trickled down from the corners of her eyes. “You want to tell me for your own sake! You think you can get rid of the memory and pain and guilt by dumping it on me.”

“You think you’re not wallowing in it right now?” he barked back at her. “You’ll never get over Todd’s death. You’re going to let it haunt you forever.”

“Who’s it haunting?” she burst out. “Me, or you?”

“Us!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her tightly against
him. Pressed between them, Abby let out a muffled cry. “It’s haunting us.”

“There is no
us.
”

“You’re lying to yourself, and you know it. Until we talk about what happened, Todd is as alive between us as this baby.”

“It’s Abby, Brock,” she choked out. “I’m so afraid for her. Todd’s gone. What if something happens to me?”

“Mara, I’m here for her. For you.”

As she swallowed a sob, he brushed a kiss on her lips. A quick touch of his mouth to hers, and then he drew back. He hadn’t meant to do it, had intended to maintain some distance between them. With other women, Brock never prefaced a kiss with explanations, rationales or apologies. But for some reason, he felt he ought to have talked this over with Mara beforehand. She wasn’t just any woman. She was different, a special treasure who had stepped into his life and might walk back out at any moment. During the past few days, he had begun to realize that he couldn’t afford to startle or frighten her. He couldn’t take the risk that she might bolt.

At the same time, how could he deny his own desire for her? They were two adults. Married to each other, for goodness’ sake. What harm could one chaste kiss do?

But now she was looking into his eyes with an expression he couldn’t begin to decipher, and he felt more tangled and confused than ever. In his arms, Abby squirmed, her tiny fists pummeling against the sheath of quilts, but the only sensation Brock absorbed was the scent of this beautiful woman’s skin as his hand slid up the side of her damp cheek.

“Mara,” he ground out, “I know you still love Abby’s father. I know you’re not over Todd.”

“You don’t know anything, Brock.” She spoke as though she could barely breathe. “You don’t know me at all.”

He wove his fingers through her hair, reveling in the strands of silk. Her breath was warm and clean, and her mouth was so very close to his own. And he wanted to taste her lips again.

“I know you’ll always love Todd,” he murmured. “I know that. I understand it. I’m trying to honor that.”

Brock tried to think about the baby, about Todd, about anything but his desire to stroke Mara’s sweet skin. He imagined his lips moving down her neck, and he reached to touch her.

“Brock!” she gasped as she caught his arm with her hand. “I do love Todd. I’m sure I do. It wouldn’t be right to feel any other way, would it?”

Every muscle in Brock’s arms went rigid with tension. Was she asking? Did she really want to know what he thought? Her scent drifted around his head in an intoxicating perfume. The warmth of her hair spilled through his fingers, and her mouth beckoned. He gazed at her lips, aching to kiss her again in spite of a squirming baby and the threat of tears for a lost husband.

“It might be all right,” he said slowly. “It might, Mara.”

He saw her tremble as his eyes traveled to her mouth. Ragged breath escaped his chest. His hand slipped to cup the back of her neck, and he drew her close. He wanted her so badly, and every male instinct he possessed told him she was eager for his kiss. But he hesitated…so scared that he would frighten her away.

“Mara,” he began, demanding order of the words that tumbled through his mind like falling blocks. “I don’t understand everything that’s happening between us—”

“Nothing’s happening.” She placed her hand on his chest, holding him back. “Between us there’s just…we both loved Todd, and now…now there’s Abby to take care of…”

“There’s more than that, Mara.” His mouth covered hers. With a gentle kiss, he tested the soft curves of her lips. His
hand behind her head drew her closer, increasing the pressure of his kiss.

“Brock,” she murmured, allowing the kiss as her hand slid up his arm and over the rigid mounds of his muscle.

For minutes he could never have counted, they were lost to the winter sun, the scent of dried grasses, the fidgeting of a baby. Brock memorized her mouth as his hand traced down the line of her back. And then she broke away from him, gasping for breath.

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “What have I done? What have I done?”

“Mara—”

“No, Brock, we have to stop this right now.” She stepped backward, breaking out of his arms. “I have to feed Abby. I have to take care of my daughter.”

She reached for her child, but he placed his hand on her arm. “Mara, please don’t go.”

“Let me have my baby!” Lifting Abby, she turned and half ran from him, stumbling on the uneven ground as she fled. He had lost her.

Watching her go, he thought of the trail of debris he had left in the wake of his selfish pursuits. Used-up cars, broken-down boots, wrecked boats. Wounded friendships. Cast-off women. Todd. It had been Brock’s idea to climb Hueco Tanks. And he had lost his best friend.

Now Mara. She ran from him, eager to escape. More than anyone, Mara knew. She understood his empty heart. She saw through his futile effort to pay off his guilt. To erase his sin. She saw, and she fled.

Good for you, Mara, he thought. Run from me. Run, before I hurt you, too.

At the entrance to the trading post, a huge cottonwood tree lifted denuded gray branches into the chill air. Desperate for refuge, Mara carried her now-howling bundle
toward it. A fallen limb provided a sturdy seat, and she settled onto it, tucking her baby into the nest of her lap. With expertise born of practice, she tossed a blanket over her shoulder and lifted her sweater.

Abby’s wails faded instantly, but Mara felt nothing close to the comfort and warmth she was able to provide for her child. She stared down at the wedding band on her free hand and focused on the shimmering gold.

What had she done? She had kissed Brock Barnett, that’s what. She had more than kissed him. She had practically devoured him. Every ribbon of moral, God-fearing restraint and decency had unraveled and shredded and been blown to the wind. How exciting and wonderful! How shameful and terrible.

She had never acted this way with Todd. They had been compassionate and gentle and never, never impulsive. Todd had been Mara’s first and only lover. Never for all the world would she have broken their bond of faithfulness.

But less than a year after his death, she had fallen into Brock Barnett’s arms like some teenager crazed with hormones firing out of control. Even now, her breath came in tiny, hot gasps. Her lips were still damp, tingling from the pressure of his kiss. She ran her tongue over her lower lip, tasting him.

Dear Lord, where are You?
She lifted her eyes to the bare limbs in a prayer for heavenly aid. She needed help. She needed a refuge. She needed a miracle.

Why had she done this awful thing? She hadn’t meant to. She had prayed against it. And yet, she had given herself to Brock’s kiss as though they were married.

They
were
married. But, no, they weren’t. Not really. Not in God’s eyes. Oh, this was bad.

Lord, please forgive me,
Mara prayed as she stroked her hand over her daughter’s velvety head.
I know I let Brock kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me. I still want it. But I
shouldn’t. It’s not Your plan, and I know that. Forgiving him doesn’t mean I should just let him into my life. I should love him, right, Lord? But as a friend. That’s all. Right?

Mara groaned. Why had this happened? How could she and Brock ever pretend it hadn’t? How could they go on in their separate, uninvolved circles of life? But they had to.

Brock was wrong. There was no
us.
There was nothing between them. It was far too soon, and she didn’t even like him.

But she did like him. He was kind to her baby, he loved his ranch and he cared about Mara’s thoughts and feelings. He was everything a woman could want.

That was the whole problem! Women went wildly crazy for him, and he knew it. He took advantage of his masculine appeal with every available female—including Mara. She had fallen for his wiles like a silly schoolgirl. What a fool she was.

Abby continued nursing as Mara lifted back the blanket and studied her tiny daughter. Her face was still a bright mottled pink from her distress, and her miniature fingers gripped her mother’s finger tightly. The knitted white cap had fallen away somewhere, leaving the baby’s wispy tufts of pale hair to blow and drift in the chilly winter breeze.

A flood of guilt washed through Mara as she tucked blankets around the precious little face. In Brock’s arms, she had forgotten all about her own child. What evidence of his treacherous hypnotism could be more obvious than that? She gently turned the baby on her lap and settled her on the other side.

When she lifted her head, Brock stood ten paces away.

“Mara, don’t run away from me again,” he said, his voice deep and his tone angry.

Slipping her arms around Abby, Mara drew the baby closer. “What happened back there was a mistake.”

“I don’t make mistakes.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Not that kind. Not with you.”

“Go away, Brock.”

“Don’t try to stop this. It’s right, and you know it.”

“It’s not right.” She shook her head. “No, I will not play this game with you.”

“This is no game. You’re my wife.”

“Stop it! You know why we got married. It was for Abby, for Todd. Not for us. Not for thoughtless…stupid…mistakes.”

“I won’t stop. I won’t quit on you, Mara.”

“What do you want?”

“The same thing you want.”

She studied him as he observed her. Tall, confident, he waited for her admission of desire. Shaded beneath the brim of his Stetson, his brown eyes regarded her. He had settled his hands in his pockets, waiting.

“What I want,” she said evenly, forcing her wayward heart and her impetuous body into silence, “is to be left alone.”