Under the Desert Sky (11 page)

Christian brushed the child's hair off his face. “Good night, little man.” He rose, intending to leave the room, as Will's eyes were now closed.

Instantly, they popped open. “You can't go. You didn't say it.”

“I love you, too.”

Satisfied, Will turned over and was asleep before Christian got to the door.

•  •  •

Christian was unduly affected by the exchange with Will. He was lying in his bed with his hands laced behind his head, staring up into the darkness. In his entire life, he'd never had anyone say he or she loved him, and he himself had never uttered the words to another person.

“You can't just say it. You have to mean it.”

Will attributed that quote to his mother. Christian felt there was more to Phoebe Sloan than what she was disclosing. It'd be interesting to discover just who she was.

Then in the darkness he saw a spot of light on the ceiling. For a moment he was puzzled as to its source; then he realized it was light shining through the hole Phoebe had made when the gun went off.

Her room was directly below his, and in the stillness he could hear her moving around—a drawer opened. More than likely she was getting out her nightgown. He wondered if it was the same one she'd worn last night. Closing his eyes, he tried to visualize what it looked like. He couldn't picture it, but he could certainly recall the feel of her body next to his as he held her in his arms.

He lay in the bed until the spot on the ceiling disappeared. What was it about Phoebe that caused him to be so aroused? Because he could not arrest his thoughts, he sat up, thinking he should have brought
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
. If anything could put him to sleep, it was reading that book. The next time he went to the Prinsens' he'd make sure to bring it back with him.

Christian laughed. He wondered if Cecil Rhodes had ever used the book to get his mind off a woman.

•  •  •

It had been a fitful night for Phoebe, and she awakened with the first rays of sunlight. With a sigh she sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then stretched and yawned.

Getting up, she walked over to look out the window. She liked this time of day—the way the soft morning sun turned the leaves on the olive trees to a gleaming gold. She saw that a nearby nesting ostrich was dutifully sitting on the eggs as he waited for his mate to take the day shift. Phoebe was always fascinated at the routine the pair followed as they shared the responsibility of hatching their eggs and then raising their young, the black-feathered males sitting on the nest all night, the females all day. Both of them turned the eggs, something Phoebe had to do with the eggs in the incubator.

Except no eggs were in the incubator now, thanks to Frank.

She turned away from the window and, when she did, saw her reflection in the mirror. Phoebe had just turned twenty-four, but she thought she looked much older. Too much exposure to the sun had increased the number of freckles on her face, and her hair was constantly a mess. But it didn't matter; Will loved her no matter how she looked.

After Edwin's death she'd withdrawn into herself, her only joy in life being her son. Everything she did was geared toward making Will's life as normal and carefree as she could.

And everything the Sloans did was geared to making her life as difficult as possible. After Edwin died, his father had tried to influence the court to take Will away from her, but Judge Johnstone had ruled in her favor, saying the boy should remain with his natural mother. But Judge Johnstone was up for reelection in November, and W. F. Sloan had let it be known that he'd see to it the judge wouldn't be reelected. Phoebe never doubted that this powerful family could get that accomplished. And if she left Arizona, she had no doubt that someway, somehow, they'd follow her and she'd lose Will forever. She had no choice. She had to make this ostrich farm a success.

But today was a different day.

Sitting in front of the dresser, she picked up the silver-backed brush and began running it through her hair, trying to coax some semblance of order into her unruly locks. Even as she was doing this, though, she was aware that had this been any other day, she would've given her hair little more than a few cursory strokes.

What was she thinking? This was an ordinary day. And like on any other ordinary day, she had chores to do. It was good she was up so early because she'd need to fix an extrabig breakfast for her houseguests. Phoebe smiled. She'd cooked breakfast every morning for Cornello and Trinidad, but, for some reason, cooking for Christian and July pleased her.

She thought about putting on another one of her town dresses, but chose her old blue chambray instead. She couldn't pretend to be somebody she wasn't. If Christian noticed her, it'd be for who she was, not for what she looked like.

In the quiet of her bedroom, she felt her face flush. For one irrational moment, she felt a sense of guilt in even thinking that Christian would notice her. It was as if she'd betrayed Edwin.

But that was nonsense. She'd done nothing to betray him, not by thought, word, or deed. And besides, Edwin was gone. How could a woman betray a husband if he was dead?

Those thoughts were tumbling through her mind as she started, not for the pens, but toward the little grave on the hill. She opened the gate to the low white fence, then went inside and sat down on the grass beside the grave. A cluster of desert baby blue eyes was growing on top of the grave and she reached for them, intending to pull them as she did all the weeds that grew inside the enclosure. But she decided to leave the little splash of color.

“They're blue, Edwin. I wish they were orange; I know that's your favorite color. But the blue looks nice, so if you don't mind, I'll just leave them here for now.”

She pulled a few other weeds around the runners of the morning glory–like flowers.

“I suppose you know a man has spent the last two nights with me. But of course you know: you're right here, you've seen everything. And you know nothing untoward has happened.

“I hate to bring this up again, but it's Frank.” Phoebe sighed. “He's doing what he can to break my spirit.” Tears began streaming down her cheeks. “For the life of me I can't understand how he could be your brother. And he . . .” She closed her eyes and bowed her head as her sobs overtook her. When she could cry no more, she sat with her legs bent and her arms encircling them, resting her head on her knees.

“Mama?”

Phoebe blew her nose on her handkerchief and turned to see Will calling from the steps of the porch. “Here I am, Will,” she called as she got to her feet and stood by the grave.

“You have to come quick. July's hungry.”

“I'll be right there.”

•  •  •

Standing at the window in his bedroom, Christian had been watching Phoebe for at least a half hour. A lump formed in his throat. How could one man be so lucky that he'd found a woman who loved him so much that her love transcended the grave?

Again Christian felt a twinge of jealousy.

•  •  •

Will and July were sitting at the table when Phoebe returned to the house. July was playing a game with Will that July called trap. He encircled Will's wrist with his thumb and forefinger, and Will tried to pull his hand free. When he was successful, his laughter seemed to bubble. It was good that he was so engaged that he didn't notice his mother's puffy eyes.

“How about eggs and bacon?” Phoebe asked, keeping her back to the two.

“No, no, Mama, I want collops,” Will said. “Mr. July, do you know what that is? It's much better than that old bacon.”

July laughed. “I've heard of it. If you say it's good, I'll give it a try.”

Phoebe liked the sound of July's voice. It was deep and melodious, with an accent she couldn't place. Some words were said with a decidedly British accent, while others tended to sound more like German. She'd be interested to learn his story.

When the eggs were cooked and the bacon fried, she cut off an enormous slab of bread and placed it before July. “I'm afraid I don't have any butter, but I've got some preserves if you'd like.”

“Am I too late for this feast?” Christian came into the kitchen. His hair was damp and a few beads of water were on his forehead. Without thinking, Phoebe wiped the water off his brow. Christian smiled.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Phoebe said, clearly embarrassed. “It's just that . . .” She turned away, but Christian caught her hand.

“Look.” Will pointed to his mother's hand. “Wet knows how to play trap, too. You have to try to get away, Mama. That's how you play it.”

Christian tightened his grip on Phoebe's hand as his gaze sought hers. Neither said a word as the moment extended. Finally, Christian released her hand. His expression was empathetic, hers guarded. She turned away quickly and began cutting another slice of bread.

•  •  •

“Mrs. Sloan, is there anything in particular you'd like me to attend to?” July asked.

“First of all, if I can call you July, then you should call me Phoebe. When I hear ‘Mrs. Sloan,' I think of my mother-in-law.” She made a face, clearly indicating a problem with that.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I think the most important thing is to make sure the plucking boxes are in order. I've got forty feather birds that were plucked about eight months ago. I know that's a little soon, but I need to generate some money now that I won't be selling Mr. Prinsen any young chicks.”

“I'll look at them and see what I think. Where are your plucking boxes?”

“I know,” Will said. “Can I show him?”

“I don't know,” Phoebe said. “I'm not sure Mr. July wants you at his elbow all the time.”

“I do need somebody to show me where things are, and I think this young man would be about the best guide I could hire. Shall we get started?”

Will jumped down from his chair, grabbed July's hand, and started pulling him toward the door.

•  •  •

When they were gone, Phoebe came back and poured two cups of coffee.

“It looks like you've lost your job as potential father.” Phoebe sat down opposite Christian.

“I'm not sure I like that. Will is an endearing child.”

“You didn't mention his mother—you know if he got a new father, I'd have to be a part of the bargain.”

Christian nodded his head. “I could accept that.”

“You know, we've been sidestepping this issue from the moment I met you. Gwen Bucknell thinks you'd be the perfect man for me.”

Christian laughed. “A matchmaker. Is she Peruvian by any chance?”

“Peruvian? I don't know what you mean.”

“In Cape Town, there was a group of people who came from Russia on a ship called the
Peruvian
. From then on, many people who followed the same religion were called Peruvians. Those people were experts at finding mates for people.”

“If Gwen is a matchmaker, she has her work cut out for herself where I'm concerned.”

“Why? You're a very attractive woman.” The tone of Christian's voice changed. Up to this moment most of the conversation had been in jest, but now he was dead serious. “You have a lot to offer a man.”

“Don't tease me, Christian.” Phoebe's voice was barely above a whisper.

Christian rose and circled the table. He helped Phoebe to her feet, and with a hunger in his eyes and his hands on her shoulders, he pulled her to him. Lowering his head, he kissed her.

At first the kiss was tender and hesitant as Christian tested her reaction. She held her emotions in check for as long as she could, but he knew the instant she surrendered. Her pliant body melded to his as she wound her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss.

Christian held her to him, feeling the emotion between them as he felt the swelling of his member.

Phoebe felt his arousal and put an end to this sensual torment. She drew back. “You shouldn't have done that.”

“Why? You and I are both mature enough to know when we want something.”

“You don't understand.” Tears gathered in Phoebe's eyes. “If anyone found out that I care for you . . .”

“Phoebe, it's not ‘anyone' you're talking about, is it? It's your in-laws. What do they have on you that makes you so afraid?”

“They'll take Will away from me.”

Christian shook his head. “They can't do that. You're his mother.”

In the recesses of his mind he saw a four-year-old boy, a boy exactly Will's age, being wrenched from the arms of a young woman. And he never saw or heard from her again.

After a long, pregnant pause in the conversation, Christian broke the silence. “I saw you this morning.”

Phoebe looked toward him, a quizzical expression on her face.

“At your husband's grave.”

“I guess you think that's silly.” Her chin jutted out in defiance.

“No, I don't. I'm not here to judge you on anything.”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you, but I find comfort in visiting Edwin.” She chuckled. “I tell him everything. I wonder what he'll think when I tell him I kissed you?”

“I think you have that wrong. It was I who kissed you.”

“No, Christian.” She shook her head. “We both know that is wrong. You just said we were mature enough to know when we want something. Well, from the night you sat at this table entertaining Will, I've wanted you. But it cannot be. I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Phoebe, that doesn't make sense. You have an ongoing operation, and no matter how strong or tough you think you are, you need help. July is the logical person to help you, and both Buck and Yhomas know he can't stay here by himself.”

“Then I'll find someone else who'll stay with me until Trinidad gets out of jail. But no matter what, you can't stay.”