Chapter 6
Rosa lit into Gabe the minute she saw him, her arms flailing.
“¿Que pensaba usted permitir esa pobrecita en el gallinero¿ Para el amor de Dios, que le pasa¿¡ Usted debe estar avergonzado de usted mismo, Gabe Calloway—yo estoy¡”
“Rosa,” he said, torn between wanting to laugh at the irate woman and feeling wretched for what he had done.
“You no ‘Rosa’ to me, Gabe Calloway!”
Tess appeared in the kitchen then. “Please, Rosa,” she said softly. “Don’t be angry with Gabriel, it wasn’t his fault. If I want to live here, I am going to have to learn how everything is done and how to do it myself. I can’t expect to be waited on hand and foot, can I? How fair would that be?”
“I no care fair!” Rosa stormed. “Look!”
She grabbed Tess’s hands and thrust them under Gabe’s nose. Tess fought to free them but Rosa held fast, twisting them over to reveal not only the numerous bruises and blood spots from where the chickens pecked her, but also the filthy weeping blisters covering both palms. Tess squeezed her eyes shut, but the humiliation still burned across her face.
Gabe hadn’t looked away from her face, hadn’t so much as glanced toward her hands, which were still being shaken by his crazed housekeeper. With great reluctance, his eyes slowly lowered to the mutilated hands before him. The color drained from his face a mere moment before his stomach rebelled.
“Gabriel,” Tess said, her voice gently apologetic. “This is not anyone’s fault, for goodness’ sake. It’s just a few scratches. I want to do this, remember? It was my decision to come here, to work hard, to . . .”
Gabe didn’t wait for her to finish. He thrust her hands away, turned on his heel, and disappeared out the door without a word. He didn’t stop until he reached the far side of the barn. There he leaned against the wall and slid down to a low squat. Bile scorched his throat, thickening with every breath—breaths that came faster and harder until he was forced to lower his head between his knees to slow them. An eternity passed before he was able to swallow past the acrid disgust. What the hell had he been thinking? Rosa was right—he should be ashamed of himself, and he was. Ashamed, disgusted, and downright sickened.
Yesterday, Tess had the smooth delicate hands of a lady; today, they were scarred, scabbed, and bloody. It was his fault. What made it worse was she didn’t blame him; she accepted the wounds almost as though she deserved them. God, how he wished she would yell at him, strike out at him, something. But instead, she had apologized to him.
He’d only wanted her to realize this life was not a silly romantic fairy tale; it was not for ladies or the faint of heart. If she stayed here, those weeping blisters would only be the first of many and probably the least painful injury she would sustain. He couldn’t let her stay; God knew what else would happen to her.
Gabe had no idea how long he sat there breathing through the waves of nausea flooding his stomach. By the time he was finally able to stand without his knees threatening to buckle, the sun had long since passed overhead, which meant he’d missed dinner. Just as well. He wouldn’t have been able to hold anything down anyway.
He thrust shaky fingers through his hair and jammed his hat back in place. Inhaling deeply, he rounded the corner of the barn and stopped dead. Tess sat on the porch, rocking gently as she snapped peas into a huge metal bowl.
Air forced its way from his lungs in a loud whoosh. She hadn’t seen him yet, he could still . . .
“Oh, hell, Calloway,” he growled. “The Lord hates a coward.”
As though sensing his presence, Tess’s head turned slowly, her gaze locking on his as he made his way toward her. She set the bowl on the small table and pushed up from the chair.
She had washed and changed back into her own clothes, and despite the fact she looked lovely and radiant in her plain blue calico, Gabe couldn’t help but feel cheated she’d traded his clothes for her own. Stupid, really, but it ate at him nonetheless.
“Gabriel,” she breathed. “I . . .”
“How are your hands?” he asked, his voice thick and unsteady.
“They’re fine, really.” She tried to conceal them in the folds of her skirt, but the white cloth bandages Rosa had wrapped them in were impossible to miss. “I’m terribly sorry about all of this. It’s really not that big of a deal. It’s a couple of scratches.”
“Stop it!” Gabe’s eyes blazed wildly. “Just stop it!”
He grasped her wrists and wrenched them toward him.
“Stop apologizing! I did this to you—and if you stay here, it’s only going to get worse! These . . . blisters . . . are only the beginning.”
His gaze bore into her, his grip pinching her wrists, but she did not flinch—not even a little.
“Gabriel,” she said again, her voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t do this to me; I did it to myself.”
He released her with a thrust, but she did not move away. Instead, her bandaged hand reached to rest lightly on his arm, sending a lightning quick jolt rocketing through him.
“Don’t you understand?” she continued. “I want to be here. I want to work hard, to bear the pain and reap the joy of this life. I don’t want to sit in a parlor and sip tea. That’s not who I am!”
“Then who the hell are you?” Without giving her a chance to answer, he pulled away and stormed into the house, but once inside, he had no idea what to do with himself. Rosa was nowhere to be found, so he stood in the middle of the living room, fighting to retain the slightest hold on his emotions.
What the hell was the matter with him? Why was Tess having such an effect on him? He’d seen other women with injuries—hell, Rosa was blistered all the time—but Tess was different. She’d only been here for a day and already she had gotten to him, gotten inside him to a place he had long ago boarded off to any woman. Damn it, he didn’t need this . . . this . . . mess right now.
Lust. That’s all it was. Maybe if he tried extra hard, he’d be able to convince himself of that. Maybe. One thing was for damn sure—it was going to be a hellishly long week until the next stage left town. He’d have to keep busier than usual and as far away from her as he possibly could.
With new resolve, he stomped back through the kitchen, poured himself a steaming cup of coffee, and pushed open the door. Without a glance in Tess’s direction, he continued on to the barn, determined to finish shoeing the rest of the horses before supper.
Tess watched him go in silence. She’d caused him enough anguish for one day. He was such a proud man, he’d be mortified if he thought for one second she had seen the haunted look in his eyes, the hidden pain he kept locked up. What—or who—had caused that? And what could she do to unlock that pain and make room in his heart for her?
She continued to snap the peas, staring after Gabriel even when he disappeared through the barn’s huge double doors. It was Rosa who finally turned her attention.
“You go church?” the woman asked. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, a huge bolt of plum-colored sateen under one arm.
“I would like to, very much,” Tess admitted. “But I don’t imagine Gabriel is the churchgoing kind.”
Rosa’s head shook slowly. “Gabe Calloway no go church, but you go, he go.”
“I couldn’t ask him to do that,” Tess sighed. “I’ve already been too much trouble.”
“No.” The woman smiled gently. “Tess Kinley just what Gabe Calloway need.”
“But—”
“Come,” Rosa interrupted, waving the material a little. “We sew.”
Tess sighed wearily and followed her into the house. Sewing—one more thing she wasn’t any good at. She had used a needle and thread before, but she was a far cry from being a seamstress. She’d probably stitch poor Rosa right into the cloth.
Rosa walked straight through the house and up to the bedroom Tess now occupied. She pulled the thin drapes closed and pointed to the far corner of the room.
“I measure,” she said.
“But shouldn’t I be measuring you?”
Rosa smiled warmly. “No, I measure Tess Kinley. Muchacha need new dress for church.”
Tess’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, Rosa. I couldn’t ask you to . . .”
“Bup bup bup,” the woman sputtered, waving away Tess’s objections. “I like the sewing. Tess Kinley need dress.”
“But there’s not enough time to get one made—tomorrow is Sunday.”
Rosa stood where she was, smiling at her until Tess resigned herself to the fact she was not going to win this argument. She removed her dress and laid it neatly on the bed. Rosa went to work in a flash, measuring, figuring, re-measuring, and smiling. When she finished, she silently indicated for Tess to get dressed and then took up her measuring tape, scissors, and material and scurried down the stairs to the kitchen.
By the time Tess joined her, the other woman had already spread the material on the table and pinned the newsprint pattern to it.
“You cut; I make tea,” she instructed, holding out the shears to Tess.
“I . . . I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” Tess confessed.
“You do fine.” She turned her back to the table, the decision made, and busied herself with the kettle. Tess studied the scissors for a moment, as though she’d never seen such things before, took a deep breath, and began cutting. She moved slowly, precisely, scared half to death of making a slip and cutting right through the pattern. So deep was her concentration, her eyes didn’t blink, her head didn’t move, and the tip of her tongue lodged itself between her dry lips.
The tea had already steeped and cooled by the time she made the final cut. She exhaled loudly, unaware she had been holding her breath the whole time. Rosa smiled broadly and handed her a cup of tea.
“Buena,”
she said, nodding toward the pieces. “Drink, then sew.”
Tess sputtered over the rim of her cup. “But I can’t! I’m sure to ruin this beautiful fabric, Rosa.”
Rosa simply shrugged, removed the excess material and pattern pieces from the table, and threaded a needle. Tess drank slowly, hoping Rosa would change her mind and do the stitching herself, but to no avail. After a few moments, she removed the half full cup from Tess’s hand and replaced it with the needle.
“Sew.”
“But . . .”
Still smiling, Rosa shook her head and rearranged the material so Tess wouldn’t sew the wrong sides together. She showed her how to turn in the edges and press them down with the iron she had heated on the huge kitchen stove. Then she nodded toward the turned-in edges and left the house.
Tess stared after her, more protests dying on her lips. It would be a waste of time to argue. Rosa was obviously used to having people do as she instructed. And besides, Tess thought grimly, she certainly couldn’t get hurt sewing, could she?
A dozen needle pricks later, with blood dripping from the last one, Tess set her jaw and struggled to concentrate again. How could something as small as this needle hurt so much? She had lost all track of time, but Rosa had come back and built up the stove’s fire to prepare supper. Tess’s offer to help was dismissed with Rosa’s usual “bup bup bup,” so she returned to her sewing, finishing the last stitch as Joby and Seth made their way to the wash bucket at the door.
Tess held up the dress for Rosa’s inspection, thrilled with the woman’s instant approval.
“We finish after supper,” she said.
Finish? Tess rather thought she
was
finished. All the seams had been sewn, the dress was in one piece and it looked just fine. Rather plain, but not bad at all. She hung the dress over the back of the sofa and returned to help Rosa set the table. Miguel arrived shortly after, carrying a straight-backed chair. He set it to the table and indicated for Tess to sit.
“What about Rosa?” she asked.
Joby chuckled. “Rosa don’t sit. She hovers.”
“But she should sit and eat with the rest of us, shouldn’t she?”
It was Seth who answered this time. “I ain’t never seen Rosa sit. To the table or nowhere.”
“Sit,” Rosa ordered, gently pushing Tess into the chair. “Eat.”
Tess did as instructed, more than a little aware of Gabe’s empty chair.
“Where Gabe Calloway?” asked Rosa, as if reading Tess’s thoughts.
“He’s jist finishin’ up with that horse from hell. Should be here in a bit.”
Rosa snorted, mumbled in Spanish, and began dishing up supper. It smelled wonderful—fried chicken, boiled potatoes and peas—and it was then Tess realized how hungry she was. She’d had no appetite at noon, what with the hands episode, but now her stomach was demanding to be sated.
As Joby and Seth kept up an amiable conversation between mouthfuls, Tess couldn’t help but laugh. They spoke, unabashed, about their plans, which, being Saturday, included going into town and finding a good card game and a willing woman. She should have been shocked by such talk, or at least pretended to be, but the two were so comical, bantering back and forth about which one would lose out at the card table and which one would lose out with the “ladies.”
All too soon they were gone and Rosa had cleared the table, bustling around the kitchen humming softly to herself. After Miguel excused himself, Rosa untied her flowered apron and hung it on its peg.
Tess retrieved the dress and began to lay it out on the table when Rosa stopped her.
“You do enough. I finish.”
“But you’ve done so much already,” Tess argued. “Show me what to do next and I’ll finish it.”
Rosa’s ebony eyes glanced out the window. “You talk Gabe Calloway. That be enough for you.”
Tess sighed. “I don’t think Gabriel wants to talk to me. He’s very angry with me.”
“No,” Rosa said, a little sadly. “Gabe Calloway not angry to you. Gabe Calloway angry to Gabe Calloway.”
“Why?” she asked, but Rosa shook her head stubbornly.
“Gabe Calloway tell you when he tell you. Buenas noches, Tess Kinley.”