He was there.
Franny watched Felipe sitting at his usual spot at the table, the kitchen door cracked open a finger’s width to let her peep through. She slipped a hand in her skirt pocket and felt the thick, slick paper there.
She couldn’t wait to show him.
She snuck a quick look at her mother, who was finishing up the dinner. If Franny stole into the dining room while her mother was distracted, she could show Felipe her prize and maybe ask him about the ranch work. She was dying to know what was happening beyond the walls of this house.
Her gaze slid to Felipe, staring at his empty plate, then back to her mother, at the stove with her back to her. There would be no better time.
Franny pushed the kitchen door open as slowly as she could, her arm straining with the effort. Finally, the crack was big enough to slip through, which she did, closing the door just as slowly behind her.
She paused half a moment, ear cocked toward the door. Nothing from her mother. She bit her lip as she raced over to him, trying to do it as quietly as she could, but her silly skirt swished with every step. When he saw her, his face lit with a smile. One that warmed her from the inside out.
Why, he looked like he actually missed her.
Then his smile fell and he reached up to rub at his breastbone as if it pained him.
“Did you hurt yourself?” she whispered.
He shook his head, but kept rubbing.
“I’ve got something to show you.” She pulled the photograph from her pocket, setting the picture on his plate, bouncing on her toes a bit as she did.
She had to admit she looked magnificent. In her best shirtwaist and split skirt, with calf-high boots wrapped round her legs, she had Juan’s rifle in her hands and his dogs at her feet. Next to her, hanging from its heels, was the lion she’d brought down.
She was staring straight ahead at the camera, a dare in her eyes and a slight smile on her lips.
She got chills every time she saw the photograph, so powerful, so determined did she look in it.
Felipe blinked, his face strangely pale beneath the dark of his skin. Perhaps it gave him the chills too. He didn’t bring the picture closer, just left it there beside his plate. And still his fingers rubbed at his sternum.
“What do you think?” He had to be thinking something, looking as strange as he did.
He handed the photograph back to her, his gaze hard on his plate. “It’s nice.” His voice was as flat as the valley floor.
Lord, but she was a fool. Her excitement drained right away, disappearing as quickly as a raindrop in the desert.
Her fingers were thick and numb as she gripped the picture. She’d thought he would—no, that was always her mistake. Expecting warmth, friendliness from him—he never gave those to her, yet she never stopped hoping for them.
Her father tramped in then, followed closely by Juan.
“What do you have there, Franny?” her father asked.
She handed it over to him without speaking. Juan raised his eyebrows and she gave him a small smile in return. Really, Felipe could have at least looked at it…
A chuckle from her father distracted her. “You look marvelous.” He studied the picture closely, a fond smile tipping his mouth, before handing it back to her.
Of course her father would be proud. Let Felipe be beastly about the whole thing; her father’s reaction was the only one that mattered to her.
Her mother bustled in then, a pot in her hands, and Franny only just slipped the photograph back in her pocket in time.
“Francisca.” Quietly said, but Franny knew what she meant: Get back to work.
She finished setting out the rest of supper, then slid into her usual spot, across from Juan and Felipe.
Once everything was as the Señora felt it should be, she sat as well. Prayers were murmured, chairs creaked as everyone settled themselves, and then they began to eat.
As usual, all were silent until the Señor chose to speak.
“Francisca, did you show your mother your photograph?” He spoke as if her mother would be pleased to see such a thing.
She went still, her fork halfway to her mouth. The last person she wanted to show was her mother, but there was no escaping now. The photograph would be one more thing to criticize, more proof that Franny wasn’t a lady.
Her mother might even burn it.
Franny carefully set her fork down and slid her hand into her pocket, the edges of the photograph blunt against her fingertips. There’s still the negative. You can always print another. Someday.
The Señora looked interested, but only mildly. “What photograph?”
Franny pulled the picture free from the safety of her pocket and shoved her chair back with a scraping squawk. When she handed it over to her mother, she held on as long as she could, but the paper easily slid through the pinch of her fingers.
A tiny line formed between the Señora’s brows and her lips thinned as she looked over the photograph. Oh yes, definitely displeased. But she said nothing.
“I had it taken with Luke Crivelli’s camera.” Franny didn’t know if her mother even cared, but she had to fill the silence. “Juan went with me.” Her voice was as stark as her mother’s expression.
“I see.” The Señora set the photograph down with a snap. “You may return to your seat.”
Franny slid the picture back into her pocket, her shoulders hunched. At least her mother hadn’t taken it away. Really, that reaction was the best she could have hoped for.
Silence fell again as she sat down, avoiding anyone’s gaze. She uselessly moved her food about her plate, wondering when she could politely excuse herself. Likely not for another twenty minutes or so. She began to count the ticks of the clock in the hall.
One.
Two.
Three.
“I’ve been thinking.” Her father’s voice pulled her attention toward him. “Juan,” he said, addressing his son and heir, “it’s past time for you to take over running the rancho. You’ve been too long in the valley. The rancho is your inheritance and you should take charge of it.”
But what about Felipe?
Franny set two fingers against her lips, in case that wanted to slip out unawares.
But, really, what about Felipe? She’d told her father that Felipe needed a shove, but now, when she sensed that shove coming, she wanted to stop it.
To throw herself in front of Felipe to save him. Again.
Felipe’s head was down, his hands in his lap, as if he were waiting. Waiting for a blow to come. Her heart clenched, because a blow was coming.
Juan blinked as if startled by a bright light. His brows drew together, his mouth tightening, and Franny thought he might actually argue with her father. But then his face fell and he pushed his plate away. “I— If you say so, Papa,” he said to the now-empty space in front of him.
“Good,” the Señor said with a nod. “Hank Whitman will take your place at the stockyards and you’ll remain here, to run the rancho.”
Felipe’s breath slid past his teeth with a soft hiss. She wondered if anyone else had even heard it.
But what about Felipe?
“And Felipe? Where’s he going?” she said. It was too loud, too strident, but it was also too late.
Felipe raised his head, their gazes meeting across the distance of the table. And she knew they were thinking the exact same thing.
I don’t want to go.
I don’t want you to go.
Her limbs tingled with awareness. For perhaps the first time ever, they were in perfect accord. A wasted accord, since he would have to leave.
“Felipe.” At the sound of his name, Felipe turned toward her father. “We have given you a home for over a decade now, and we were happy to do so. Your parents were our dearest friends. But you have land of your own, land they gave you. It’s time for you to leave here and tend to your own rancho. Any debt you think you owe to us has been more than repaid.”
Felipe’s face drained of color.
Don’t go. I don’t want you to go. Stay here.
She bit the inside of her cheek and tapped her toe furiously inside her boot. What would she do without him? She might be stuck in the house and he might be happy about it, but even so, he’d been by her side for years.
He couldn’t leave.
She wished she’d never said anything to her father.
“If you think that is best, Señor,” Felipe said. His eyes were bottomless wells of unhappiness.
He doesn’t want to leave. But she knew it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his family. Which hurt.
“Your mother was my dearest friend,” her mother said. “I know for certain she would want you living there, in your own house, with your own family.” A gentle push, but a push nonetheless.
His answering smile was weak, tremulous—a mighty effort Franny could see straining at the seams. “As you say, Señora. You did know her quite well.”
At that, her parents shared an arch smile, one that said, Look at how well we’re managing things. A smile that took no note of the bewildered, benumbed state of the rest of the people at that table.
Franny saw that smile, arcing between the two across the table, and knew she had to do something.
So she began to plan.
Franny crept across the yard in the low light of the crescent moon. She breathed softly, setting each foot gently down as the chill of the night seeped through her wrapper.
If she were caught mucking about outside in the dark in her nightclothes, her brilliant plan would be for naught.
This particular one was even better than the lion hunt.
The bunkhouses and overseer’s cottage formed slowly from the dark, painted in shades of gray and black in the light of the moon. She peered intently at the cottage, trying to see if her quarry was awake. A beam of soft light spilled from the front window, illuminating the dark trim framing it.
Perfect.
She inched toward the front door, the rustling under her toes fainter than the wind moving through the pines. He wouldn’t know she was there until she was upon him. His dogs knew her well enough not to give her away.
Pausing by the open window, out of sight of anyone inside, she looked within.
Felipe sat in his rocker—the one that had belonged to his father. She could recall Mr. Ortega rocking in it, as Felipe was now, as steady as a clock pendulum keeping time. That rocker had been the only thing saved from the fire that consumed the rest of the Ortegas’ effects, set to fight the contagion.
All those years ago, she’d woken and seen the rocker on her front porch, knowing that Felipe was in her house, recovering.
Him and that rocker, the only things left.
Felipe’s hand was sunk deep into his Dally’s fur and a book sat open on his lap. But he wasn’t reading it—he was looking at something far away. Something too far away. He must have been gazing at his own thoughts. His brow was furrowed, as if he were thinking on some deep mystery. A mystery that saddened him.
What he was thinking on? His family? Her father’s orders to leave?
Her?
No, certainly not her. He’d never look so pensive if he were thinking about her.
She went to the front door and knocked lightly.
The dog gave one short, sharp bark, and then Felipe was swinging the door open, those dark eyes widening at the sight of her.
“What are you doing here?” He pulled her inside with scant gentleness, shutting the door softly, his hand manacled around her arm as it had been once before.
She let him haul her into the main room, too grateful that he hadn’t slammed the door on her to protest. He set her rather forcefully into the chair across from his, then sat himself down.
“Well?” he prompted. “Did anyone see you?”
She swallowed and shook her head, trying to summon her speech.
Why was she here? Because she had a brilliant plan?
He never thought her plans brilliant, only ridiculous.
Because she didn’t want him to leave?
That would be even less well received.
He crossed his arms. “I know you’re not here for anything reasonable, like a sick horse. You would have woken your father for that. So what is it, and how soon can I send you back to the house before we both get into trouble?”
Reasonable. He never thought her reasonable, only a pest to drive away.
If he said no to this…
She steadied her resolve. First, she had to ask him—she had to try. She couldn’t be condemned to that house. She licked her lips. “I—I have an idea.”
He began to rock, slowly, his stare as steady as the tempo of his chair.
Well, let him try to cow her. She wouldn’t rattle. “If you’re going to be moving to your own place, you’ll need cattle.” Even he couldn’t argue with that.
“I will. And what does that have to do with you? You don’t have any cattle. Everything here belongs to your father.”
“I don’t have any cattle… yet.” She took a deep breath. She’d brought down a lion—she could do this. “But I will have one hundred head when I marry.”
She held that breath as his eyelids drooped, making his gaze seem heavy upon her. “Are you suggesting… we marry?”
He twisted that last word in such a way that she couldn’t tell if he thought it brilliant or the worst thing he’d ever heard.
“Yes,” she said on a rush of expelled air. Please don’t say no. Don’t say you hate me so much you could never do that.
“So, I get one hundred head”—he pointed to himself—“and you as a wife.” He pointed to her. “What do you get out of this?”
Now came the trickiest part—the piece he’d object to most. “I would be your foreman.”
That was all she wanted from the marriage. Not his affection, not his body—only that.
“A woman as a foreman?” He definitely thought that was a terrible idea—nothing ambiguous there. “That’s crazier than us marrying.”
His words were sharp enough to deflate her bravado. And prick her pride. But she pressed on. “You know I can do it. Even you have to admit that I have the skills and the knowledge.”
“What makes you think I’d agree to this? I’ve always said you belong in the house.”
“Because…” Here was the hinge of her entire plan. “Because you always help people. And I need your help.” His gaze cut to the floor. “You say I’ll get hurt out of doors? Well, being in that house…” She leaned across the distance, took his hand, large and warm in hers. “Being in that house hurts me.” She squeezed his hand. “Please, help me.”
He looked up, his expression intent. He raised his hand and pushed back a strand of her hair, his fingers brushing her cheek as he tucked the strand behind her ear. Stealing her breath in the process.
“It hurts me too.” As breathless as she.
“Then you’ll do it?” Perhaps he did feel something for her…
“But what will people think? About all of it?”
She dropped his hands, leaned away. “I don’t care.”
“No, you’ve never cared what anyone thought.” His chuckle was soft, humorless. “The prospect of being a house cat is so terrible that you’d consider marrying me?”
“It wouldn’t be a real marriage. You wouldn’t have to do that.” Even if he was willing to help her, it didn’t mean he yearned for her. “It would be a… a mercantile marriage,” she offered. “We each get something out of it. Just not that.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Not even to have children?”
“I don’t want children.” Heat rose in her cheeks. “Not now, not ever.”
He looked at her as if she were unnatural. Well, let him look at her so. She was unnatural.
She stared right back, her fingers curling into her palms. Only the sounds of their breathing filled the silence, the rhythms of it somehow perfectly in tune, the both of them drawing air at the same time.
What was he thinking about? About the children he’d never have if they married? About whether he could give up a chance to meet a lady he might truly love to marry her?
She couldn’t tell at all.
He sat forward, elbows against his thighs and hands resting between his spread knees, all of him angled toward her. She’d never seen him look so… so intent on her. Not like this.
That gaze of his trapped her, enthralled her.
“But what if I insist?” His voice went low and dangerous, somewhere between a purr and a growl. “What if I insist on tying you to my bed, keeping you there always, just waiting for me to exercise my marital rights?”
Something within her stirred and stretched at his words, making her skin feel too tight as it jostled for space. “You’re joking.”
He must be. I can’t let myself—
The memory of him holding her hand by the fire rose. She could almost feel that thumb of his rubbing across her knuckles again as the heavens stretched overhead.
A slow smolder started beneath her skin.
“How do you know?” A dare from him.
“Because…” She couldn’t think of an answer, not when his gaze was a live coal against her, burning straight through. She could lean forward, just as he was, clasping his thighs to steady herself, and—
He blinked and the moment was gone—he was just Felipe and she was just Franny, two people who’d never gotten along.
“You’re right.” His voice was entirely back to normal. “I wouldn’t do that. I don’t want children either.”
She pulled in a shocked breath. Not want children? She’d never met a man who didn’t declare he wanted an entire passel of sons. And Felipe seemed to like children.
“Why not?”
“Why don’t you?” he countered.
“Well…” She rubbed her hand on her skirt and recalled her mother’s accusation that she was selfish. Perhaps she was. But if he didn’t want children, didn’t that make him selfish as well? “I don’t want to be tied down. I want to do as I please.”
He nodded. “Fair enough.”
Well. That was nice, to have him simply accept that. “And you?”
His expression shuttered. “I’ve lost enough loved ones for one lifetime.”
Her stomach tensed against the phantom blow of that. Of course he would fear that. Of course.
And that was why he was willing to marry her—he didn’t love her.
She blinked hard, tried to focus and remain calm. She knew that, had always known that. So it shouldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t let it hurt.
“As far as plans go, it’s not half bad. I get cattle, you get to run a ranch.” He sounded as if he were seriously considering it. “I’d have to repair the old house, but there would be plenty of room for the both of us.” A knowing glint entered his eyes. “We’d even have separate rooms.”
“Yes,” she stuttered, her tongue numb. Sharing a room with him—no, she mustn’t dwell on that.
“Your parents could always say no,” he warned. “In fact, I’m guessing that’s exactly what they’ll say.”
They weren’t the ones that would be hard to convince. He was, and he was speaking as if he’d already agreed. “What could possibly be objectionable to having you as a son-in-law? My parents did take you in.”
“Taking me in and having me marry into the family are two very different things. Even you have to admit I’m not treated as a true Moreno.”
She thought on that picture she’d been dusting and Felipe’s absence from it. “Once we’re married, there’ll be no question about you being part of this family.”
The twist of his mouth said he wasn’t persuaded about that. “Are we truly going to do this?”
“Why not? As long as we keep out of each other’s way, we should get along fine.”
He pulled at his mustache rather roughly. She could tell from his narrowed eyes, the tension in his jaw and throat—he was about to refuse her. She imagined him saying no, as he always did, then shoving her back outside. If he didn’t agree… This was her only idea.
Please. Please say yes. I’ll work hard so that you won’t regret it.
“Well, then,” he said with a gusty sigh, “I suppose we’re engaged.”
He’d said yes.
She only just kept from clapping her hands together in glee. “I suppose we are.”
She was free now, set loose from her mother’s rule.
She was engaged to Felipe. Her glee sank into uncertainty.
Was it really this easy, getting engaged? Should they shake on it? Or even… kiss?
She’d imagined kissing him before, alone in her bed. But now that they were to be married, a kiss seemed liked too much.
Was it?
He started up his rocking again, his face unreadable. “I’ll speak with your father tomorrow.”
She nodded, her stomach fluttering. “Good. I can come along, if you’d like.”
“No, it’s best we talk without you. I’ll come find you when we’re done.”
“All right.” The moment stretched tight as they stared at each other. “Until tomorrow then.”
That was it. They were engaged. There was nothing more to say. But something still felt unfinished.
She stood and backed toward the door as he rose to follow her.
It didn’t seem right, how dry all this was. It wouldn’t be that kind of marriage, but no ring, no kiss—not even a hint of affection? It seemed like bad luck.
Oh, what the hell. She leaned forward to brush her lips against his.
She’d meant it to be a friendly kind of kiss—not that she’d ever given a man any kind of kiss—but she misjudged the distance between them and found herself reaching out as she fell forward.
Reaching out into nothing.
His hands wrapped around her arms to catch her, stopping her fall. Their lips crashed into each other.
There was a brief, still moment of surprise, which then melted into the purest kind of recognition.
His arms went round her waist and her arms went round his neck, and the years of vexation, the years of enforced togetherness, flamed and transmuted into something quite different. The frustration that had built and built, day in and day out, became a yearning possessing the entirety of her.
Their lips were fierce against each other, with the bite of teeth just behind them. He worked her mouth open with his jaw, before sending his tongue to invade her mouth.
She gasped, then set to work tangling his tongue with her own, the sensation hot and wet and full.
He herded her toward the wall, her head snapping back when she met it. He raised his head briefly at her sharp breath, his eyes alight with something close to anger, but hotter, deeper, demanding.
He bent his head and seized her bottom lip with his teeth, worrying it gently. She slid her hands down to his shoulders and pushed. She didn’t want gentleness. She wanted all that fury and frustration and fire, and she wanted it now.
He released her lip and she took the opportunity to anchor his face between her hands for a fierce kiss of her own. She was panting by the time his mouth left hers to track down her neck, his mustache trailing harshly, setting her skin alight with shivers.
He yanked her wrapper from her shoulders, shoving it away to the floor. Only the thinness of her nightgown kept her skin from the chilled air, and gooseflesh tightened along her length.
Then he was pressed against her, and she forgot all about the cold. Their mouths joined once more and his hand found her breast, his thumb rubbing the peak. The sensation that stitched through her made her gasp.
She could summon the sensation herself, and had done so many a night, her hand between her legs, but he was doing it now, with his hand. That point of contact at her breast expanded throughout her body, making her want to squirm and buck and crawl inside him all at once.
His knee came between her legs and she arched against him, needing the friction there just as she needed his hand at her breast, his mouth on hers. She breathed deeply of the scent of him as they locked together, soap and skin and leather filling her senses.
The wall was hard against her back, his mouth demanding against hers, his knee firm between her thighs. All of him pressed upon her, forging the fire at her core into something sharp and aching.
She moved fiercely against him, the only way she could instinctively ask him to relieve the terrible and wondrous urges rising within her. The hard line of his thigh caught on the very center of her pleasure and yes, oh yes, that was exactly what she had been asking for…
She let her head fall back with a breathy moan, and he took the opportunity to nibble at her neck again, along her jawline, and at her earlobe. Funny that she should have spent all her years thinking the ear a most ordinary body part, and here was Felipe showing her it could be quite extraordinary.
Her knees went wobbly under his assault and she slid down the wall toward the floor. He went with her until they were both prone, the wood floor unforgiving under her back and the bulk of him rearing over her. She raised first one knee, then the other, enjoying the slide of her thighs against his, and lifted her hips.
He lifted his head from hers, one arm taut and straining as he braced himself, pulling her nightgown to her waist before fumbling with his own fastenings. Then he was arranging her—entering her.
She opened her mouth on a silent gasp. It was ache and tension and stretching, yet deep beneath, something akin to pleasure flickered. But it was rather more like relief, a cessation of the terrible thing between them that had gnawed for years.
He began to move, his face tight with an emotion that pained her to look upon. She turned her head away and hooked her legs higher, focusing only on the sensations flowing through her.
His thrusts grew deeper, faster, until she began to jerk forward with each roll of his hips. She reached a hand up to brace herself against the wall and reared up to sink her teeth into his shoulder, needing some way to release the tension building in her—half pain, half pleasure, all need.
The peak was coming, the one always preceding her fall into the ultimate satisfaction.
He threw his head back, the sinews of his neck stark under his skin. With one final, wrenching thrust, he spent himself in her, leaving her stranded in her frustration. Warmth pooled in her sex, alongside the still-present ache, although less intense now—only a faint afterglow of what could have been.
He rolled to the side, leaving her there alone in the middle of the floor, stretched out next to her but not touching her.
She was shaking and anxious and achy. What had that been? She couldn’t say. She didn’t regret it—but she wasn’t quite certain she had enjoyed it.
She had needed it.
He was blowing harder than a spent horse, his chest heaving. Her own lungs felt the same way. He turned his head toward her, those dark eyes wide, and asked, “Dear God, what have we done here?”
She swallowed, trying to catch her breath. She knew what they’d done. If they’d been animals, she would have called it mating. Or breeding. She’d never felt any shame at those words; they were a natural part of life on a ranch.
But mating or breeding couldn’t hold what had happened here.
She had no idea what could.
So she did as she always had and answered him in perfect truth:
“I couldn’t say.”