Rio Grande Wedding (7 page)

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Authors: Ruth Wind

BOOK: Rio Grande Wedding
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With a breathy exclamation, he shook his head. This was no life for a child. No life for him. He ached with homesickness, ached to go back to the simple farmer's life he'd known before his sister's death. And yet, when he spoke to his uncle rarely, it was plain that life in Mexico was no better. The big farms were eating up the little ones, making it harder and harder to make a living from the land. And there were so many people displaced from that land now that the cities were overcrowded, wages were poor, the neighborhoods where a man could afford to house a family too dangerous. Though everyone said it was different in America, he saw some of the same things here. It was just easier to be poor with three dollars an hour, rather than the three dollars a day he could get for the same work at home.
He did not know what the answer was. It weighed on him every day, thinking of it
His head ached with the questions, and he put them aside for today. Today, he had to let himself heal. Today, he hoped to find Josefina. When she was found, then he could decide what to do.
Chapter 4
M
olly made a few more stops before she returned home, avoiding her usual haunts in hopes of sidestepping anyone who'd ask about her “sore throat.” She was lucky. The market was not busy, and she nabbed a few items to tide them over till morning, then got to her car without having to speak to hardly anyone.
When she unlocked the door at her house, an aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled her nose, so rich it made her nearly light-headed. Carrying the bag of groceries into the kitchen, she made a show of inhaling deeply.
“Oh, I must need that coffee! It smells glorious.”
Her patient sat on a kitchen stool by the stove, one hand stirring a pot, the other clasped protectively around his ribs. He lifted his head. “I hoped you would not mind me taking this liberty, if the coffee was good enough.”
“Not at all. As it happens, I had a yen for some doughnuts, so I stopped at the store.” She brought out a bag of tender, newly fried doughnuts. “Do you like them?”
“Yes, I do.” He attempted a smile, and only then did Molly see the white lines of strain around his mouth, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. “The coffee will be ready in—” he glanced at the clock “—three minutes.”
Concerned, she crossed the room and with the familiarity of a nurse to her patient, touched his shoulder, bending to look into his eyes. “Are you all right?”
He ignored her. “Did you find her?”
Molly sighed. Shook her head. “Wiley is going to keep an eye out. He said he'll send some men to look for her.” Automatically, she put her hand on his face to check for fever.
She regretted it immediately. Her thumb against his cheekbone was very white, very alien, did not belong anywhere near him. And beneath her fingertips, she felt a delicacy and strength of bone that was powerfully intimate. His eyes, sober and large and still, regarded her steadily.
She took her hand away. “The fever is back a little. You should have some more medicine and go back to bed.
“In a little while. First coffee, huh?” He lifted his chin to the bag on the counter. “And a doughnut or two.” A faint smile edged the wide mouth. “Or three.”
“Ah, so you're like me—a weakness for doughnuts.”
“My mother cooked them. I think of her.”
From the cupboard behind her, Molly took two mugs and set them on the counter. “I've never seen coffee made this way.”
“You will like it.” Very carefully, he stood up. “I need a...” He scowled, his hand describing a shape in the air. “You know, something to pour it through.”
“Ah.” She ducked below the cabinet and pulled out a large wire-mesh strainer. “This?”
“Si.”
“Strainer,” she said.
He gave a single nod, took it from her and pointed to the stove. “It is too heavy to lift now.” His wry smile. “Will you do it?”
Together they strained the coffee into the cups. The scented aroma made Molly's mouth water. “Do we need sugar?”
He shook his head, and there was pleasure—maybe anticipation—on his face. “You will like this,” he promised again.
Molly carried the mugs, leaving the bag of pastries to her guest. Patient. Whatever. She sensed his need to contribute whatever he could, and gave him the dignity of shuffling to the table with the doughnuts in his long, slim hand. He gave an audible sigh of relief when he sat down, and Molly smiled. “You really do need to take it easy for a few days.”
“Take it easy.” He smiled. “You say that a lot.”
“Because I'm so sure you won't.” Molly bent her head to the steam and inhaled it, then lifted the cup and took an experimental sip. Cinnamon and coffee and dark sugar burst on her tongue. “Oh! That's wonderful!” She took another taste—closing her eyes this time. “Mmm.” She looked at him with a smile. “Thank you.”
She surprised an expression of something she couldn't quite name on his face. Something oddly alert, intense. Then it was gone. She pushed the doughnuts toward him. “Eat, so I can give you medicine.”
He picked out a glazed one, lifted his eyebrows at her and dug in. Molly said, “Tell me,
señor
, how it is that you came to be working the fields.”
He raised his eyes, and she saw that he was about to make light of it. But suddenly something in his face shifted, and that intense expression came back and he said softly,
“Señora,
you have beautiful eyes.”
Startled, Molly looked away, strangely pierced. Then she lifted her head again. “Thank you,” she said in a calm voice. “So do you.”
He grinned. “But very different, huh?”
“Yes.” She picked up her doughnut and urged him to do the same. “Now tell me your story,
señor.”
“Please,” he said. “Call me Alejandro.”
She nodded, but didn't say the word. Not yet. It would roll on her tongue, lilt in her mouth, and she wasn't ready to taste it. It would have been much better, she thought, if he'd been named Hector or Porfino.
“My father was a businessman. We, my sisters and I, had everything.” He caught her skeptical expression. “Ah, you don't believe me.”
She inclined her head. “Maybe. Go on.”
“I went to very good schools, in Mexico City, and so did my sisters, off to boarding school, you know?” He eyed his doughnut and took a bite, chewed it slowly, then asked, “That was after they found oil, and everybody thought Mexico would be a rich, rich country.”
“Oil?” She associated oil with the Middle East.
“Much oil—and it could have been the thing that turned the country around.” He started to sigh, then cut off midbreath and reflexively put a hand to his ribs. “But there was poor management, too many loans. The government crashed.” He carefully wiped his fingers on a napkin. “My father went down with it. Lost everything.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen. It wasn't so bad for me. I never liked it, school. I wanted to be with the land. So, my uncle, he took us in. He was not rich, like my father, but not poor, either. He had a good farm. It was good enough.”
Molly discovered that she liked the way he talked. His voice was not deep, but the lilting accent, the precise emphasis he put on certain consonants appealed to her. “But?” she prompted.
He bent his head. “My younger sister, she was—” He shook his head. “She wanted too much. A rich life. A boy came to marry her. A good man, I think, but ordinary, a farmer. She ran away.” He looked away, into the distance, into the past. Light shimmered on the dark irises. “To America.”
“Land of the free and home of the brave,” Molly said, tongue in cheek.
He lifted a shoulder. “Land of money. She thought she would come here and find some man who had plenty of money to marry her and take care of her, and she would have—” a dry lift of his eyebrows as he gestured toward her kitchen “—this.”
Molly felt a curious sense of guilt. But that was silly. Wasn't it?
Alejandro continued, “You can guess what happened to her.” The beautiful mouth tightened. “She worked for three dollars an hour as a maid for a big hotel in Texas. It was okay, you know? She was happy enough. Sent money back to us sometimes, like she was the
rica.”
Molly smiled. “So where is she now?”
“She married. Not rich, but she had a dishwasher.” A sad smile. “She had Josefina, too. An American citizen. But it turned out her husband was no good. She left him when Josefina was only two. It was hard for her, but she wanted to stay so Josefina could have something better. So she would be an American.”
He took a breath and wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Two years ago, my sister was killed in a car accident. Josefina was with the baby-sitter. She called us to say what happened.”
Again, sorrow settled like a veil over his features. “My sister had asked, a long time before, if I would go to America and take care of her daughter if something happened.” He lifted a shoulder. “So I came. In a van, in the night. And here I am still.”
Molly sipped her coffee, letting the story settle. A soft sense of admiration went through her, that a man would honor a promise that caused him so much personal difficulty. “Why not apply for citizenship?”
His smile was bitter and knowing. He did not even bother with a reply, only shook his head.
Molly knew a little of the problems of Mexican nationals gaming citizenship in the United States. Given the political and social impact of such immigrants on the local economy, as well as the ancient Spanish colonial roots of the region, the subject was in the news a lot. “I guess you aren't a Nobel prize-winning scientist, huh?” she said lightly.
He rewarded her with a grin. And this time, it wasn't a small quirk of the lips, but the whole thing. White teeth in a half moon, a wide, flashing grin. It hit her the same way it had last night—right through the solar plexus. “No scientist,” he said, and spread his strong brown hands, palm up. “Only a horseman and a farmer. Plenty here already.”
“I'm sorry,” Molly said impulsively.
He shrugged. “I tried, you know, to find someone to marry me. For money. And there was an old woman, in Colorado, who was going to do the paperwork for me another time, so I could help her with her yard.” He shook his head.
Molly noticed suddenly that he was still sweating, and his left arm stayed protectively wrapped around his ribs. “Let me get you some more medicine,” she said. “And then you should go back to bed.”
“What I would like,
señora,
very much, is to bathe.” He inclined his head, modestly, and met her gaze. “I do not think I can do it alone.”
“I'll help you,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm only sorry I didn't think of it myself.” She stood and held out a hand. “It will make you feel better.”
He looked at his hands.
Molly chuckled. “I won't look,” she said. “Much.”
A smile edged his mouth, abashed and accepting. Molly helped him to his feet.
 
His saint put her strong shoulder under his arm again, and helped him down the hall. It was easier with her, easier on his pains, anyway. Not so easy in some other ways. From his vantage point above her, the crown of her blond and brown and gilt hair was visible, but so was the top swell of her breasts. He tried not to look, but each time he moved his eyes, it seemed there was that slope of smooth white flesh again. Nothing on earth would have aroused him exactly in his current state, but if he could have been, that slope of smooth pale skin would have more than done it.
Up close, she smelled of wind and sage and soap. Faint hints of cinnamon came from her breath. Her braid slithered along his arm, silky and heavy at once, and he wondered how her hair looked when it was not braided.
She led him to a bathroom that he had not seen. This was big, nearly as big as his bedroom at the farm, and it was not like any room he'd seen before. Warm pine panels covered the walls, varnished carefully to seal the moisture out. A huge old tub on claw feet dominated one corner. Plants hung around skylights and a ring of windows along the top of the wall. “Very nice,” he said.
“My husband's pride and joy.” She settled him on the closed lid of the toilet. “He was a carpenter.”
He glanced down, and saw the wedding ring still lived on her left hand. Choosing not to ask his questions, he said only, “A good one.”
She straightened, looking around with pleasure as she efficiently tied her braid in a knot. The position put her breasts in silhouette, and he saw they were shaped like commas, heavier at the bottom curve.
“Yes, he was,” she said, and met his eyes, answering the question he had not asked. “I'm a widow. He died four years ago.”
“I am sorry.”
A sad smile. “Me, too.” Briskly, she bent over and dropped a plug in the drain and turned on the water. “Nice and hot?”
Alejandro nodded.
“What we're going to do here is—” she opened a linen closet and took out a pile of towels she set on the sink “—you can undress to your skivvies, and I'll help you with whatever you can't manage, then leave you to the rest.”
“Skivvies?”
“Underwear. Then I'll bring you fresh clothes and you can manage the covering-up part, and I'll help you get dressed.” She smiled. “Okay?”
Her attitude was so sensible it made his modesty seem foolish. He lifted his shoulder, caught his breath against the pain that spread in a band over his chest and said in a strangled voice, “Okay.”
Her laughter was soft. “Come on, big boy, hand over the shirt.”
It was not nearly as humiliating as he'd feared. Her no-nonsense hands braced him as he undressed to his “skivvies” and her strong, small body provided the support he needed to get into the tub. He could not suppress a groan of pleasure as he sank into the water.

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