Love's Haven (5 page)

Mara touched the white silk bow on her new nightgown. At the time Brock had given it to her, she had sensed a genuine generosity in his eyes. He had carried the pink-papered box into her room early on the morning after Abby’s birth. After laying it on Mara’s bed, he had waited in silence for her to open it.

“It’s got hidden slits in the front,” he had explained as she drew the satiny garment from the tissue paper. Then he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, and Mara would have sworn he blushed. “Well, it’s a special nursing gown, so you can feed Abby in it. The lady at the store told me it was just the thing.”

Mara had softened at the thought of the tough cattle rancher searching for just the right kind of gown. Now, she wondered if the gift had been merely another token to ease Brock’s guilty conscience.

“I imagine he’ll start to resent the situation after a while,” she said. “Abby and me living in his house and all.”

“As I keep saying, Mara, so what? Let him resent it. He offered to do this, and now he can just deal with it.”

Mara knew Sherry was trying to comfort her, but
somehow she felt worse than ever. Could she live with a man who resented the very sight of her? Could she live with a man she could never forgive? Did she have any choice?

Only the appearance of a nurse wheeling Abby’s bassinet through the door lifted Mara’s spirits. As the woman stopped the plastic-sided cart next to the bed, Sherry pulled back the edge of the blanket that covered Abby’s face.

“Oh, Mara, I’ve never been the mommy type, but she’s precious.”

“She certainly is,” the nurse concurred. “And she’s a pretty good little sleeper, too.”

As Mara read out the code on her wrist bracelet, the nurse checked the matching codes on Abby’s arm and ankle tags. Then she lifted the baby out of the bassinet and laid her in Mara’s arms.

“This child is all that matters,” Sherry said softly. “Focus on her, Mara. Abby is all you need to be thinking about.”

Mara gazed down at the tiny pink face and tried to make herself believe Sherry was right.

“Your rooms are in the west wing,” Brock said as he drove Mara and Abby across the metal cattle guard between the highway and the dirt road that led to his house. Though only fifteen miles outside the city limits of Las Cruces, the ranch felt to Mara as though it was light years away.

“The courtyard is right outside the door to your suite,” Brock said. “It’s a good place to watch the sun go down.”

Mara studied the man beside her. His tan Stetson shaded his eyes from the late-afternoon light that gilded his straight nose and firm, unsmiling mouth. These were the first words he had spoken since they left the hospital,
and she wondered if Sherry’s prediction had come true already. He certainly didn’t seem thrilled to be transporting Mara and her baby to his house.

So what? Mara told herself, repeating Sherry’s refrain. She didn’t have to please Brock Barnett. All that mattered was Abby. She glanced behind her at the infant carrier strapped into the back seat of the car. The sleek purr of Brock’s Jaguar had lulled the baby to sleep the moment they started on their way.

Abby and her needs. The baby was all that mattered in Mara’s life.

“Is there a place at the house for Abby to sleep?” she asked. “The cradle…it isn’t…well, Todd didn’t finish it.”

Brock worked the gears of his bronze Jag with a leather-gloved hand. “I bought a crib.”

“You did?” She couldn’t hide her surprise.

“There’s a swing, too. It winds up. And one of those molded bathtubs. Yellow, I think.”

“Oh.” Mara tried to picture Brock walking through a department store selecting baby furniture.

“I reckon Abby won’t need a high chair for a few months yet, but I got her one of those, too.”

Mara stared at the endless barbed-wire fencing that slipped past her window. A high chair meant Brock expected to have Abby around when she was big enough to need one. Maybe he really did intend to continue the arrangement, at least for a while. Did she want it to last beyond the time it took to get back on her feet? Could she handle being there with him for one day, let alone weeks or months?

She allowed herself another look at the man. Dressed in a chamois-colored shirt that clung to his shoulders, a pair of faded jeans and the low-heeled brown leather boots New Mexicans called ropers, Brock scanned the terrain. He was tall, lean, fit and suntanned, and his black hair
curled just a little beneath his hat. Again, Mara recalled the time Todd had introduced his best friend to her at an art gallery, and the way Brock’s deep voice had slid into the pit of her stomach. He truly was a sight that would stir any woman’s soul. Any woman but this new, utterly maternal Mara.

She turned back to the window. Truth be known, she felt more like a punching bag than a woman. She had been poked, prodded and stitched until her whole body ached. Worse, she had been forced to admit her figure was a long way from its former shape. A long, long way.

No man was likely to take a second glance at Mara—not that she wanted anyone to. But she had been appalled to discover that her stomach was almost exactly the size it had been before she gave birth. Only it was no longer hard and sleek with its cargo of baby. No, this stomach sagged like an old, half-full laundry bag. She had been assured she would firm up quickly, but she felt repulsive.

“It’s too cold for the pool these days,” Brock remarked. “But you can use the hot tub in your wing. Might help with those stitches.”

Mara suddenly flushed. For the first time since Abby was born, she flashed on the moment of birth. Brock had been watching, hadn’t he? He’d seen her body—seen the doctor cut her, seen how she was formed and shaped. He had seen her at her most raw and elemental moment.

She leaned her cheek on the cool window and shut her eyes in embarrassment.
So what?
Sherry would say. So what if he saw you, and so what if you look like the Saggy Baggy Elephant?

“Come summer, the pool is nice,” Brock said. “I swim laps, myself. You swim, Mara?”

She nodded, at that moment resolving she would not be caught dead in a bathing suit—ever.

“Abby might like the water, if we watch her close,” he
continued. “I learned to swim when I was just a pup. Rode horses, too, but Abby won’t be ready for that for a few years. Still, it never hurts to start kids out young. I was roping by the time I was nine or ten.”

Mara forced herself to listen. Again, Brock was talking about the distant future—and Abby was part of his plan. She needed to focus on the present situation and turn off the inward microscope. It was just the baby blues again, she told herself. She had never been one to allow negative thoughts to rule her life, and she wouldn’t start now.

Recalling her conversation with Sherry, Mara thought about how forgiveness had seemed a fairly simple act—until Todd’s death. But she had to try. Even if it didn’t do a thing for Brock, it would help her heal from the terrible loss of her husband. As she breathed up a prayer for help, she decided that if Brock wanted to chat as they drove the long road up to his house, she would join in the conversation. The least they could do was be civil to each other.

“Who taught you to swim?” she asked, seizing on the first thing that came to mind.

She saw his jaw tighten. After a long pause, he spoke two words. “My mother.”

Mara let out a breath. Great. She had put her foot in her mouth on the first try. Todd had told her Brock’s parents had divorced when he was ten years old. His mother had moved to the East Coast, and now she was living somewhere in South America. Brock had grown up with his father—a man too busy with his oil business to pay much attention to his son. Todd’s happy childhood stood out in stark contrast to that of his best friend.

“I learned how to swim at the city pool,” Mara tried again. “There was a special program. We swam and did crafts, that kind of thing. It was fun.”

From under the brim of his hat, Brock gave Mara a skeptical glance. Though they hadn’t been close, Mara
realized that each knew about the other’s past. No doubt Todd had told his best friend how chaotic Mara’s childhood had been.
Fun
was rarely part of the picture.

“Ever ride a horse?” he asked as he swung the Jaguar onto the gravel driveway of his house.

“Never.”

“Too bad.”

“I don’t think so.” Mara leaned forward, trying to keep her mouth from dropping open at the sight of the massive adobe home looming before them. “I don’t know the first thing about horses.”

“You’ll learn, once you’ve been here a while. I’ll take you out one of these days when you’re feeling better. Nothing like a good long ride to take your mind off things.”

He pulled the car around to the side of the house and pressed the button that lifted the first door of his three-car garage. As the vehicle slowed and came to a stop, Abby woke with a start. The baby began to whimper, and Mara unlatched her seat belt.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she cooed as she leaned between the seats. “It’s okay, Abby. Mommy’s here.”

As Brock switched off the engine, Mara climbed out of the car. She unfastened the baby and lifted her from the carrier. “She’s probably hungry.”

“Yeah.” He was standing nearby as she straightened. “Listen, Mara. About Abby’s birth…I didn’t plan on being in there, you know.”

“I know.”

“The nurse just—”

“Thank you. I mean, I’m glad. You helped.”

“It was an amazing experience. Wonderful. But you don’t need to worry. I won’t intrude again.”

“Oh, good.” The words were out before she had time to retract them. “You’ve been great, Brock. Really. Todd would appreciate it.”

Todd,
she thought.
You
appreciate this, Mara. Words seemed to whisper in her heart. Tell him. Tell him how thankful you are. Forgive him, Mara. Set him free.

“I think Abby’s hungry,” she said. She gave him a quick shrug and then turned away.

“I
’m Rosa Maria Hernandez, and this is Ermaline Criddle, and, oh, my goodness! Would you look at this baby? How darling! How beautiful!
¡Que linda!
”

Brock stood beside Mara in the grand foyer as his housekeeper and her assistant pressed close for a better look at the household’s newest member. Rosa Maria, a small, round woman with bright black eyes and black curly hair, fairly bubbled with joy as she oohed and aahed over Abby.

Beside her, Ermaline gushed with equal ardor. She was tall, almost gaunt, and she looked as though she hadn’t eaten in a week. Her teeth were two sizes too big for her mouth, but Brock had always thought her face was genuine and kind.

“She’s a doll,” Ermaline said. “Three days old? I tell you what, me and Frank, that’s my husband, we’ve got four kids. Every one of them’s been three days old, too, but I’d swear I can’t remember them ever being this small.”

“They grow so fast!” Rosa Maria tapped Abby’s cheek. “So fast! One day you can hold them in your arms, the next day they’re getting a driver’s license. Oh, my goodness, you better enjoy this one, Mrs…. um…”

“Mrs. Barnett,” Brock said as he set Mara’s suitcase on the floor.

“You can call me Mara. Really, that’s…that’s fine.”

“Mrs. Barnett,” Brock repeated. “We try to keep things a little formal around here.”

Mara hugged Abby tightly as though she was almost frightened by the reality of his world—a world that now had become her own.

“You have two housekeepers?” she asked as the women hurried away. Ermaline vanished down a hall, and Rosa Maria went back to polishing the mirror in the foyer.

“The house is huge.” Brock looked around him as he stated the obvious. Her awe wasn’t lost on him, and he felt a surge of pride at all he had accomplished in the past few years.

“How messy can one man possibly be?” Mara whispered. “And who is this?”

A man wearing a tall white hat, white apron and white cravat knotted at his neck stepped forward and bowed.

“Pierre Britton,” he announced in a clipped voice, “at your service, Madame.”

Mara glanced at Brock. He winked. “Just tell Pierre what you want to eat, and he’ll fix it for you. As long as it’s not hamburgers. Pierre doesn’t do hamburgers.”

“I am a chef, Madame, not a fry cook. I have trained with the finest in France.”

“I’m looking forward to experiencing your cuisine,” Mara said.

Pierre beamed. “The boy grew up with my food, and see how he is? Very healthy.”

“I’m healthy, all right,” Brock said, “as long as I head for the bunkhouse once or twice a week to chow down on grilled steaks and beans with the hands.”

“Oui!”
Pierre exclaimed. “Terrible, the things our boy does.”

“Man cannot live by cordon bleu alone.”

“Steaks half-burned and half-raw. Potatoes fried in fat. Beans laced with lard.
Mais oui,
terrible, terrible!”

Brock gave Mara a lazy grin as he brushed past her. “I love to goad him,” he said in a low voice. “Come on. I’ll show you the house.”

“Tacos, he eats!” Pierre was exclaiming as Brock led Mara and Abby across the warm terra-cotta tiled floor of the foyer. “Tamales, refried beans, nachos and
menudo!
”

“And what’s wrong with
menudo?
” Rosa Maria snapped as she turned from the mirror she had been shining.

“Cow’s stomach!”

“You feed him snails!”

“Your hot chiles will burn his intestines!”

“And your eclairs will give him a heart attack!”

Brock chuckled as he beckoned Mara into the spacious living room. “They’ve been fighting for twenty-five years. They’re happiest when they’re at each other’s throats.”

Silent, Mara carried her daughter into the place that was the heart of his home. Brock watched her face register admiration and wonder as she gazed up at the huge, rough-hewn beams that crossed the twelve-foot ceiling. Each viga was supported by an intricately carved corbel buried in the wall. The adobe walls had been smoothly plastered in a rosy-brown color, even around niches that contained New Mexico artifacts.

As though seeing his own home for the first time, Brock took in the fragile beauty of baskets woven by Mescalero Apaches, clay pots shaped, painted and fired by Indians of the Santa Clara and San Ildefonso pueblos and kachina dolls carved and decorated by Hopis. Old Navajo wool rugs were spread across the tile floor, their patterns evoking spirit gods and their colors of white, gray, black and brown reminiscent of the landscape.

“I keep a fire going even in summer,” Brock said as he pointed to the colossal fireplace that was an unusual combination of stone and sculpted adobe. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” Mara whispered.

Brock recalled the furniture he had removed from Mara’s apartment and taken straight to the thrift store—snagged plaid sofas, garage-sale lamps, cheap curtains. Todd had been a great friend, a superb athlete and a trusted confidante. Brock had supported his decision to major in history and to start an architectural restoration company. But it hadn’t provided much more than the basics for Todd and his young wife.

To Mara, Brock’s long, buttery leather couches, wool-upholstered pillows, Mission-style cabinets, silver-inlaid tables and wrought-iron lamps must seem like utter luxury. “This part of the house used to be all there was,” he explained as he led Mara and the baby past windows that faced north toward the vast plains that stretched to the San Andres Mountains. “The great room is more than a hundred years old. On the other side of it there, you can see the courtyard with the new swimming pool and the gardens. What are now the kitchen, dining room and library used to be bedrooms. My father bought this land from a descendant of the original Spanish land-grant owner. We moved into the house when I was six.”

Mara followed Brock out of the great room and down a long hall lined with Native American and Hispanic art. “So, your father collected New Mexican artifacts?”

“Nope, these are mine,” Brock replied. “I pick up things wherever I go. I particularly like the native crafts: baskets, pottery, silver, weaving. I’ll buy a painting if it’s one I’m partial to.”

Mara gaped at the collection of originals by Peter Hurd, Henriette Wyeth and Gordon Snidow. A large
framed Amadeo Peña hung on one long wall, an R.C. Gorman on another.

“If I can find an authentic Hispanic religious artifact,” he was saying as she readjusted Abby on her shoulder and hurried to catch up, “you know, a
retablo
or a
santo
—I’m as happy as a skunk eatin’ cabbage.”

“I didn’t realize you were so religious,” Mara remarked.

Brock swung around, surprised at the question. “It’s art. These things come out of old churches. They’re hand-crafted folk art. That’s why I collect them.”

“I thought your interest in Todd’s work was just a whim. He said you liked to try new things all the time. Let’s see…parasailing, hang-gliding, whitewater rafting…rock climbing.”

Brock stared at her, feeling the emotion behind her words. “I’ve collected art for years.”

“Todd never told me.”

“I don’t know why not,” he said, angry with Mara for some reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint. The climbing accident wasn’t her fault. It was his.

“I guess you and Todd covered more ground than I realized.” Her voice was softer now. “You knew him longer.”

“We liked exploring. I’d be hunting something every time we went off someplace together. Todd was looking at the architecture, and I was searching for folk art or paintings.”

She nodded and turned her focus to the beamed ceiling. “So, did your father add the two wings onto the house?”

“I did.”

“You?”

“Sure. Are you surprised?”

“I guess so.”

Brock knew most people thought he lived solely on his father’s coattails. “I took over the ranch about six years
ago, after my father died. He founded Barnett Petroleum and turned his attention to the oil leases he owned over in the southeastern part of the state. He pretty much let this place go. I was kind of steamed about it. Then, when the bottom fell out of oil, Dad sort of dropped out of life. Tipped the bottle, you know?”

“I do know. One of my foster dads had a drinking problem.”

“When I was in college,” he continued, “I’d come home on weekends and try to put things back in order around the ranch. Dad died shortly after I graduated, so I moved back in and took over.”

“What happened to the oil business?”

“A management group in Artesia takes care of things for me there. I look in on the operation regularly just to keep my hand in. The oil pays for itself and a little more. Well, a lot more, but the money goes into stocks and other investments. I let some boys in New York play around with it.”

Mara focused on the tiny bundle in her arms, and Brock allowed himself to study Mara. Her hair, brushed shiny-smooth and gleaming, lay like scattered wheat across her shoulders. Mesmerized by her gray-green eyes and her pink lips, he took in her soft curves. Nothing like a long-legged lady in blue jeans, he thought. Mara was definitely beautiful to him—even more so since he had experienced the miracle of Abby’s birth. But this was the last time he would study her this closely, Brock instructed himself. Every time he permitted himself to really look at Mara, it shook him to the core.

Satisfied the baby was sleeping, she faced him again. “Stocks and bonds, art, oil, cattle,” she said. “It’s all pretty foreign to me.”

“Some of the money goes to causes I support. Chari
ties, foundations.” He knew Mara was religious, and she might not think too highly of his interest in acquiring stuff. Brock had gone to church as a boy, and he believed in God and Jesus—all that. But he had learned that money, and not religion, turned the world.

Brock had hated the loss he’d experienced when his mother moved away. His life felt upside down, and nothing he did could right it. Only financial success seemed to give Brock the feeling of control he craved. Until Todd’s death, he had been sure he held the key to power. Nothing had prepared him for the emptiness and guilt that assailed him afterward. His only hope was that taking charge of the lives of Todd’s wife and baby—salvaging something out of the future he had destroyed for them—would relieve his pain.

Brock led Mara down the hall toward her rooms. “I’ve always wanted to get this place back on its feet. Last year the ranch turned a profit for the first time since the seventies.”

“So, you decided to use your cattle money to improve the house?” she asked.

“Afraid this is oil money.” He pushed open a heavy door. “The ranch keeps itself going, but we’re not setting the world on fire. I’m still working on that. This is the west wing. Here’s where you’ll stay.”

Mara stepped into the huge room and squeezed Abby so tightly the baby whimpered in surprise. Her whole apartment could have fit into this place. And the decor! Thick wool rugs covered the oak floor. A large old bed with enormous posts anchored one wall. Two huge chairs flanked a beehive fireplace that filled a whole corner.

“A fireplace!” She tried to bite back her gasp, but Brock heard it and his mouth lifted in a pleased grin.

“I built one in every room.”

“It’s…nice,” she said as she walked toward the
windows that lined an entire wall.
Nice
was not an adequate word. The windows faced the plains at the base of the San Andres Mountains, now robed in shades of purple and indigo. Two tall French doors opened onto a deep porch on which sat wicker chairs and tables. A swing hung from the beams, its seat drifting back and forth in the slight breeze.

“Your sitting room opens onto the courtyard,” Brock said as he stepped through a doorway.

Startled from the spell the scene had cast over her, Mara followed him into the other room and peered into the dimly lit garden. She could just make out the faint outline of the swimming pool and covered terrace.

“I put a little waterfall by the pool,” he told her as he moved to stand beside her. “I planted a xeriscape garden—native wildflowers, cactus, other stuff that can take the heat and dryness. On my property over by the mountains, I found some great rocks. Big ol’ things. The water runs over them, and makes a calming sound. It’s good for nights when you can’t sleep.”

Mara looked up, wondering what could ever disturb Brock Barnett’s sleep. Highlighted by the setting sun, his stony profile belied the softness in his brown eyes. Odd. All she had ever noticed about him in the past were those severely carved angles of jaw, cheekbone and brow. She’d seen the swagger and the cocky grin, heard the curt sentences, tasted the bitterness the man could leave in his wake.

Who was this person with gardens, art, waterfalls in his soul? Why had he built a beehive fireplace in every room? And what kept him awake at night?

“The baby’s room is next door,” he said. “Come on.”

Mara accompanied him into the adjoining room. Everything he had mentioned sat in perfect showroom newness—crib, high chair, swing, bathtub.

“A rocker!” she exclaimed, delighted at the sight of the
large, smooth wood chair with its high arms and comfortably curved back. “This will be perfect for nursing Abby.”

She went straight to the rocker and eased her sore body into its cradling cushions. The chair glided evenly back and forth on the floor without a creak or a bump. Immediately, Abby turned her face inward, and her mouth puckered into an expression of hunger. Mara lifted her eyes to Brock.

He stood in the gathering shadows, hands in his pockets and hat pulled low. “You like the chair?”

“This is perfect.” She let out a breath. “I love it.”

As Abby began to whimper, Brock turned away. “I’ll go see what’s for supper.”

Mara watched the door shut behind him, then she unbuttoned her blouse. She could get used to this, she realized.

“Knock, knock?”

Mara looked up from the crib where Abby lay sleeping peacefully. Rosa Maria Hernandez beckoned from the door.

“Pierre sent me to tell you it’s almost time for supper,” the housekeeper said as Mara crossed the room to her. “He wants to know, will you eat in the main dining room or in the lounge?”