San Antonio Rose (2 page)

Rafe’s face was as smooth and cool as the marble desktop in his office, and he let no one and nothing deter him as he took his place and assumed the traditional pose of funereal respect—feet spraddled about six inches apart, and the palm of one hand clasping the back of the other over his lower abdomen.

He wanted to see the woman who stood on the opposite side of the polished bronze casket. And he wanted her to see him.

Jeannie
 … He almost said her name aloud when he spotted her clinging to the arm of the longtime ranch manager, Rusty Pride. Beside her stood a dark-haired boy of about ten who looked vaguely familiar, behind her a man whom he didn’t recognize but who hovered over her with husbandly concern.

The old hurt rushed back, sharpened on the whetstone of that long-ago betrayal.

Rafe tried to staunch the flow of memories, to forget the past and focus on the present. But they’d merged before his very eyes, in the vision of elegance standing little more than an arm’s length away.

A faille-trimmed, floppy-brimmed black straw hat covered Jeannie’s head, but Rafe remembered how her hair caught sunbeams and threw them shining back to the sky. Angel hair, he’d called it then.

The shaped jacket and slim skirt of her silk suit showcased a figure that had more than fulfilled its womanly promise. Pearl earrings shone discreetly at the juncture of her delicate jawline and gracefully arched neck. A faint iridescence shimmered from the sheer black stockings sheathing her slender legs. The leather pumps that shod her feet completed the portrait of feminine perfection.

She turned to run a comforting hand over the boy’s hair, smoothing down a cowlick in the process, and Rafe got a glimpse of her face beneath her swooping hat brim. A beautiful
face, even in grief. She turned still more, absently scanning the half-moon of mourners on the other side of the grave, and their gazes met and held.

A moment of shocked awareness sizzled between them.

“Let us pray,” the minister said, opening his black psalter to begin the simple Protestant service.

Everyone bowed their heads … except Rafe and Jeannie.

The minister’s monotone drifted above the silent gathering as the blue-eyed boy from the barrio and the golden-haired girl from Bolero stared at each other across the flower-covered coffin.

How was it possible that, even in death, her father could keep them apart?

For a fraction of a moment, Jeannie Crane thought her eyes were playing tricks on her.

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d mistaken a tall, dark-haired man for Rafe Martinez. Every once in a while she would spot someone whose muscular build or macho bearing reminded her of him. Her heart would lodge in her throat until she realized she was staring at a stranger. Then she would turn away, relief and regret fighting for the upper hand on her emotions.

But there was no mistaking those blue eyes
that still haunted her while asleep and awake. No confusing that proud nose and those prominent cheekbones with someone else’s. And absolutely no doubt about the crisply etched mouth that had so beguiled her at eighteen.

The memories were eleven years old but the pain was as fresh as if it all had happened yesterday.

“Are you all right?” Rusty whispered.

Jeannie tore her gaze away from Rafe and looked at the loyal ranch manager. He wore a brown suit that was nearly as old as he, and, beneath the brim of his black Stetson, an expression that was partly puzzled and partly pained. She glanced down then, and seeing that she had his arm in a death grip, apologetically relaxed her hold.

“Yes,” she answered softly. “I’m fine.”

The minister droned on. A bee buzzed lazily around the wreath of yellow roses lying atop Big Tom’s coffin. The breeze spanked a streamer from the white satin bow that bound the flowers to the lid. And those blue eyes drew her gaze from across the way like a magnet that defied resistance.

By sheer force of will Jeannie shut it all out and bowed her head. Try though she might, she couldn’t stave off the thought that history was repeating itself. That once again she was torn between Big Tom and Rafe Martinez.

Everyone had called her father Big Tom,
including Jeannie. Part of it was conditioning—she’d never heard him called anything else. And part of it was his comportment—standing six-five in his stocking feet and weighing in at two hundred fifty pounds in his prime, he’d ruled his widespread cattle kingdom with the proverbial iron hand.

But all the king’s money and all the king’s men hadn’t kept his princess of a daughter from falling in love with the son of a peon.

“Ashes to ashes …” the minister intoned.

One of the six cowhands serving as pallbearers removed the bouquet of roses and set it aside before rejoining the others. Together they lowered their late boss’s coffin into the grave.

“Dust to dust …”

Rusty gently disengaged Jeannie’s hand from his arm and stepped forward to shovel a spadeful of the rich Texas earth onto the lid. The dirt landed with a
clump
that essentially brought the simple service to an end.

She rested her hand on her son’s heaving shoulder and rubbed it gently. Then fighting tears of her own, she joined in the final “Amen.”

“Miss Jeannie Crane has asked me to thank all of you for your attendance today and to invite you to the house for refreshments,” the minister said as he closed his prayer book.

The mourners began converging on her before filing out of the cemetery. Hands
squeezed hers. Murmured condolences came from all sides. Somehow she managed to respond, returning clasps and consolations in grateful fashion.

Rafe didn’t cross over with the others, but it seemed each time she turned to visit with another guest, he managed to be in her line of vision. Because of their proximity, and because they were acquainted with so many of the same people, Jeannie had known this day would eventually come. But now that the moment of truth had arrived, she found herself totally unprepared for it.

She developed a slight backache from standing so rigidly, and the beginnings of a headache from the tension. Only the thought that she was the one who’d been left in the lurch got her through the endless formalities without falling apart.

Rusty stood devotedly at her side, shaking hands and directing traffic. When the throng thinned out, he looked over at the lone man standing tall against the Texas sky and demanded, “What’s
he
doing here?”

Jeannie followed the course of Rusty’s glare, her mouth going dry and her palms becoming damp. But before she could form a reply, a gentle hand gripped her elbow and turned her around. Grateful for this small reprieve, she lifted her gaze to Webb Bishop’s intelligent face.

Webb had been Big Tom’s cardiologist and
Jeannie’s shoulder to cry on these past eighteen months. Divorced for several years, he was one of the kindest, most considerate men she’d ever met. And lately she’d gotten the impression that he was interested in expanding their relationship from the professional to the personal.

She felt a twinge of guilt as she looked up into his brown eyes, which shone with a patience that had never worn thin. The problem was—

“Are you ready to go back to the house?” he asked her now.

She shook her head. “Not quite.”

“I’m hungry,” Tony complained, his grief taking a temporary backseat to his growling stomach.

Every protective instinct Jeannie possessed came into play as she turned back to her son. Her heart knocked out a warning at the sight of his tear-streaked face, so like the one she’d loved and lost.

For all his failings as a father, Big Tom had been an exemplary grandfather. Maybe he’d seen Tony as the son he never had. Or maybe he’d finally seen the error of his prejudiced ways. Whatever, the gruff cattle rancher had taken one look at the baby boy in the crib beside his daughter’s hospital bed and fallen hopelessly in love.

“Why don’t you walk back to the house with Rusty and Webb?” Her voice sounded remarkably
calm considering she felt as if she was on the verge of a breakdown. “I’ll be along shortly.”

“Say the word, and I’ll stay,” Rusty assured her.

Time had drawn craggy lines in his face and faded the red hair, which accounted for his nickname, to the color of fine silver. There was a permanent squint to his eyes from long years of riding into the sun and the wind. Bucking broncos and stampeding cattle had broken almost every bone in his body.

But his age and infirmities aside, Rusty could still outrope, outride, and outfight many a younger man. He was the last cowboy, gallant to the core where ladies were concerned. And just as he would have done anything at one time to protect her mother, so Jeannie knew he would have laid down his life for her and for Tony right now.

She smiled at his offer to stay but shook her head in refusal. “I’d rather you keep an eye on things at the house.”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “I was planning to go back to my place and change clothes.”

As foreman, Rusty lived in a small bungalow instead of the fourplex the other unmarried cowhands called home. It was about a mile from the main house, and it wasn’t fancy by any stretch of the imagination. But it was one of the privileges of rank. And it guaranteed
him some privacy after a day spent moving cattle and bossing men.

He gave the brim of his Stetson a tug and her a shrug. “I figured I’d ride out and finish getting a calf count so you can order the supplies we’ll need for branding next week.”

That gave Jeannie an idea. “Maybe Tony could go with you.”

“All right!” came Tony’s jubilant cry.

“I thought you were hungry,” Rusty said with a teasing smile.

“I’ll eat fast,” Tony promised.

“Not
too
fast,” Jeannie insisted.

“Awww, Mom.”

“Have Martha feed him at the kitchen table,” Jeannie instructed the ranch manager. The words
just in case
remained unspoken, but they shimmered in the air between them.

Rusty nodded as if to say he’d gotten the rest of her message, then reached over to ruffle Tony’s thick hair with a gnarled hand. “C’mon, cowpoke, let’s go see what that crotchety old cook has rustled up.”

“I hope she made tacos,” Tony said as he fell into step beside the foreman. At nine going on ten he was tall for his age, his dark head already coming to Rusty’s shoulder. “They’re my favorite.”

Webb’s gaze swung to Rafe, then back to Jeannie’s pale, drawn face. She’d told him the whole shameful story of course. How could
she not? Now she could practically see him making the connection in his mind.

“I’ll wait here with you,” he said staunchly.

“Please, Webb …” She laid her hand on his arm, pleading for his understanding. “I have to do this alone.” When still he hesitated, she hastened to add, “Maybe I can keep him away from the house.”

The logic of her argument must have finally convinced him. He looked at Rafe one last time, then dropped a dry peck on her smooth, porcelain cheek before rounding on his heel and hurrying to catch up with Rusty and Tony.

Jeannie waited until she was sure the three of them were out of earshot before she turned, head spinning and heart slamming against the walls of her chest, to face the father of her son.

Two

Rafe started toward her, skirting the gaping hole in the ground with long, fluid strides.

Jeannie stood perfectly still, but the slight quiver to her lower lip betrayed her anxiety over the confrontation that had been such a long time coming.

Through the years she had fantasized about seeing him again. She had pictured herself bumping into him by accident on the crowded streets of San Antonio or in the close confines of a dinner party. They would make polite conversation, never referring to the past, and she would take her secret with her when she took her leave.

But his reputation preceded him now. He was a highly paid, hard-nosed litigator who let nothing stand between himself and the truth.
Criminals and CEOs alike cracked under the force of his questioning. And it was this reality that had her quietly but completely panicked.

Rafe didn’t stop until he was so close she had to raise her chin to meet his gaze. As she looked up at him, Jeannie was swept away by memories of how freely they’d laughed, how fiercely they’d fought, and how fervently they’d loved.

She wanted to close the small gap between them and grab that brass ring of careless joy she had once known. She wanted to step into his arms and recapture some of those wonderful feelings she had experienced solely with him. She wanted to bury her face in the hollow of his broad shoulder and relieve herself of this heavy burden of silence she’d carried for so long.

But something perilous flickered in his eyes, as if he, too, felt the pull of the past, and it brought her to her senses.

This man, who had once held her naked under a midsummer moon and told her he loved her, had also left her without compunction and with child. Now he possessed the power to bring her world crashing down around her ears, and she would do well to watch what she said to him.

“Hello, Jeannie.” His voice was deeper than she remembered, with a serrated edge of
gruffness that probably served him well when examining a hostile witness.