Franny found it easier to deal with the wedding if she pretended it was all a dream.
That was some other Franny standing in front of the mirror as her female relatives fussed over her. It had to be—the real Franny never worried about her hair or wore such fine clothes.
But was it the real Franny or the dream one who would be at the altar?
Before she could indulge such foolish thoughts any further, Catarina ordered her to grab the bedpost.
“Please don’t make it tighter,” Franny begged, as she wrapped her fingers round the post.
“Just a little more, or the dress won’t fit.” Catarina grabbed hold of the corset strings and pulled. “If you wore one all the time, this wouldn’t be so difficult.”
“Men don’t wear them. I don’t see why I should.”
“Men don’t have bosoms.”
“Compared to you,” Franny said, “neither do I.”
In the mirror, she saw Catarina put a hand to the bosom that had been fine before her marriage and had slid straight into decadent sometime after her third child. “True,” her sister admitted. “But today, bosom or no, you wear a corset.”
Once Franny was trussed tighter than a roast pig, her mother shook out the dress Catarina had been married in, altered these past weeks to fit her.
When it was on, it wasn’t Catarina looking back at her in the mirror. And it wasn’t Franny.
This stranger in an ivory confection of a dress, veiled and with her hair up, was some other girl.
Franny stared back at the stranger, her limbs numb and her mind clouded. This other girl was marrying Felipe today.
No, she was marrying Felipe today. The real Franny would spend the rest of her life with him. She tried to take a deep breath, to settle her emotions, but the corset caught her tight halfway.
Her mother fussed with the veil and mantilla, her smile small and uncertain. Her mother ought to be happier. After all, she’d no longer have the burden of training Franny to be a lady after today.
Isabel and Catarina’s smiles were much wider, yet a little pinched at the edges. She wanted to reassure them, to convince them this was for the best, but she was too shaky and strained herself.
Instead, she simply asked, “Is it time to go?”
The ride to the church, the wedding ceremony, even the ride back after—she was aware of all of those things happening, but she experienced them through a veil of detachment. She’d never dreamed of such things as a girl, and her sisters’ weddings had simply been ceremonies to endure until the celebrations could begin.
Felipe, by her side through the ceremony, spoke his vows with a clear voice, his gaze hard. She couldn’t have said if he was resolute, nervous, or simply indifferent. Her own responses came from some other girl’s throat.
When he’d taken her hand to slip on her ring, she’d watched in befuddlement, her eyes telling her he was touching her, but her skin feeling cold and insensate.
The kiss at the end hadn’t even been a kiss. His lips had hovered a hair’s breadth over her cheek, only his breath touching her skin—and only for half a moment, just long enough to fool everyone into thinking they had kissed.
They were pulled apart when they arrived at the rancho for the wedding fiesta, him to be congratulated by the men and her to be fussed and cooed over by the women. The music began, the food came out, and the crowd surrounding her thinned.
Out in the open, without everyone pressing on her, her senses began to return to her. Finally, she felt as if she weren’t floating through a strange dream, inhabiting a body not her own.
If it weren’t for the corset she was wearing, she might have taken a deep breath of relief.
Agnes and Lily had come over to congratulate her first, their smiles wide and their embraces fierce.
“You look so beautiful,” Lily said.
She didn’t feel beautiful. She felt false.
Agnes gave her a sly nudge with her elbow. “We always knew you and Felipe were secretly sweet on each other.”
Ha. The secret sweetness was all hers. Felipe was nothing more than ambivalent.
And now he was her husband.
Her skin tightened as gooseflesh broke out in a chilled rush.
“Enjoy your time alone with him now,” Agnes said, as if imparting wisdom for the ages. “Soon enough the little ones will come and you’ll never be alone again.”
“Exactly,” Lily agreed. “But you’ll enjoy the company when they get older.”
Of course Lily and Agnes would say such things. They thought she was entering their sorority of proper wifedom and motherhood. She felt like a traitor in their midst.
Lily and Agnes each gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then left her to receive the congratulations of the rest of her family.
Her mother’s cousin, Don Enrique, caught her up for a hug, his raven hair now white at the temples.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her, “we’ll leave you alone with your groom soon enough!”
She summoned a weak smile since she’d always been fond of her mother’s cousin—he was a good, gentle man.
“Not at all,” she protested. “I can’t express how happy I am to see the family.” She left out the bit about how terrified she was to be alone with her groom.
“And we are happy to see you settled.” His chuckle bounced out of his belly. “You know, I did doubt this day would come.”
So had she. Best not to confess that at her own wedding. “After a time, we just realized…”
She couldn’t finish that. She’d used up her store of lies yesterday.
The Don patted her hand. “If he’s engaged your affections, he’s a good man.”
That was the trouble. He was a good man—just not to her.
His rejection of her last night had been like knife stabbing into her. Not someplace vital—she would heal, but it would take time.
Felipe came up behind the Don, and her heart shuddered at the sight of him.
In a green suit that made his skin glow golden and a high white collar that set off the black of his hair, he looked as she had never seen him. Even his Sunday best wasn’t as nice as the suit he was wearing.
Both of them were playing at being someone else today.
“Don Enrique, how glad I am you could be here.” His smile was his usual warm one. A true one.
The Don clasped the groom’s hand. “I would not have missed this for the world. I was just telling Francisca, you are the luckiest of men.”
When he turned on her, Felipe’s smile dimmed and went false. “Indeed. We should dance now,” he said to her. “They’re expecting it.”
So he would only dance with her because it was expected? She wanted to sit on her haunches and howl no at him.
But she wasn’t that girl today.
The girl she was today simply took his arm and said, “Of course we should.”
“Don Enrique.” Felipe nodded as they moved away.
“You take good care of her,” the Don called to him.
Once they were in the midst of the other couples, he set his hands at her waist with a stiffness that spoke to his reluctance.
“It’s only one dance,” she muttered to his feet. “Then you can let me alone.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said to her. “We’re married now. I can’t leave you alone.”
The music started and they lurched off together. Stiff and sullen as he was, he still looked fine today, his mustache thick and glossy, his shoulders broad under her hands, the column of his neck oh so kissable.
Heat flooded her face. If she was going to keep to this mercantile marriage, she had to stop reacting to him like this.
Her body didn’t listen to her mind’s admonishments—she kept noticing the most extraordinary things about him. The soft curve of his lips, the plane of his cheek with its light dusting of stubble, the gentle power of his hand over hers. The scandalous sensations his hand at her waist was setting off within her, shivers that echoed to her very toes.
Her body thought they were truly married, and she couldn’t think of how to convince it otherwise.
“We ought to at least pretend to converse.” His voice was rough, as if he were doing something of great difficulty.
“It was a nice wedding.” She only realized after that it sounded as if she were speaking of someone else’s wedding and not her own.
“It was.” His gaze was unfocused and aimed at her bosom. He must be trying to imagine something pleasant to get through this ordeal.
Jace and Catarina sailed by, both of them laughing. She watched them from the corner of her eye—anything to keep from noticing her husband holding her. Those two had an easy kind of marriage, seeming to always be in accord, not ashamed to display their love for all to see.
No, display was wrong. It was more they didn’t care who knew they were mad for each other.
She looked over to Isabel and Sebastian on the other side of the floor. Neither smiled, yet there was something deep and tender between them. If Franny ran her hand through the space between them, it might snag on affection. Their love was as private as Jace and Catarina’s was public, but it suited them.
How would she and Felipe appear in a few years? Would they be laughing into one another’s eyes? Or would they be silently gazing at one another, their affection strong and serene?
Or would they be just as they were now—awkward, stiff, and unhappy?
She caught him staring at her with the strangest expression on his face. As if he had something of great import to tell her, but his mouth had been enchanted to silence. She simply stared back, trying to figure what he was about.
The music ended and he quickly released her, sketching a bow before abandoning her in the middle of the dance floor. She stood in her sister’s dress amid the clapping, smiling couples and watched as her groom stalked away from her.
He didn’t come near her again.
Felipe didn’t like it when she didn’t look like herself.
Oh, Franny was certainly beautiful today, there was no denying that. But it was an ordinary beauty. The elemental energy that usually animated her was gone.
And he missed it.
Dancing with her had been torture. Holding her so close, her perfume teasing his nose, moving together as they had that one wild night…
It had clearly been torture for her as well, judging by the rigid set of her neck and averted gaze. Only a different kind. One that came from rejection, rather than wanting.
It was his wedding day, and his wife didn’t want him to touch her. He couldn’t complain; he’d engineered it that way.
He, Jace, and Juan were tucked behind the barn, watching the barbecue coals burn down and sharing a bottle of whiskey. And some silence. Having the entire town and all the Alvarado relatives congratulate him in one day was wearying.
He took a deep swig, feeling the burn all the way to his toes. Normally he wasn’t one for too much strong drink, but his fortitude needed some support.
“Thank you both for your help on the house,” he said. “I wouldn’t have finished in time without you.”
Juan shrugged that off. “Had to get it finished before I left.”
Felipe nodded as if that made perfect sense, as if the house would never be finished if Juan left before it was done.
“Got everything squared away for when you leave?” Jace asked Juan.
“Eager to see the back of me?” Juan said.
They kept up their pretense of combativeness, though they’d made their peace years ago. And Felipe was the one in the middle—reasonable, affable. All these years as friends, and they played the same roles they always had.
It was a comfort, really.
“No,” Jace said, “because Felipe and I will have to take up your slack come roundup time.”
Two of Jace’s boys came tearing past, throwing dirt clods at each other. One already had a rip in the knee of his pants. His mother was going to be unhappy when she saw that.
Juan nodded at them. “They’ll be big enough to help soon.”
Jace snorted. “If they don’t kill each other first. But I suppose we’ll have some little ones from Felipe and Franny soon.”
Felipe wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. No doubt they expected a hearty laugh of agreement, but he wasn’t up to manufacturing one.
The boys were facing off now, throwing clods at each other as hard as they could and yelping when they hit. What was the point of such a game?
“How do you stand it?” Felipe asked as he motioned to the boys. “Having them running about in the open, exposed to any kind of danger? Isn’t it like having a piece of your soul let loose?”
Well. The whiskey was loosening his lips more than he’d anticipated. He took another swig.
Jace frowned as he looked over at his sons. “I never really thought of it that way. It just seems part of life to let them run free, although you worry and fret.” His frown deepened. “Don’t you want children?”
“Is it odd if I don’t?”
“Odd?” From the way Jace said it, Felipe could tell he did think it queer.
The boys had stopped throwing dirt at one another and were digging like dogs, dirt flying from between their legs.
“No, we don’t want children,” Felipe said. A bit strange to admit that out loud, even to one of his oldest friends. “Neither of us do. We enjoy being an aunt and uncle to yours and Isabel’s. That’s enough for us.”
Jace shrugged. “If that’s how you feel. I suppose it’s not too odd—certainly sometimes they seem like more trouble than they’re worth.” He smiled fondly at his dirt-coated offspring. “But then they do something to remind you why you love them so much.”
“I’m with Felipe,” Juan said. “You and Catarina can have the headache of them. Felipe and I’ll drop in to spoil them.”
“Except you’ll be gone.” Melancholy swamped Felipe and he shoved the whiskey bottle away. No more. He couldn’t become a maudlin drunk at his own wedding.
Juan slapped him on the back. “Won’t be gone long. Just enough to see some of this world. Got Jace watching over Catarina, Sebastian…” He drew a deep breath. The bad blood between Juan and Sebastian never had been mopped up. “Well, Sebastian and Isabel. And you, watching over Franny.”
Yes, Felipe would watch over her forever. Or at least as long as he could.
Please God, let it be a long, long time. Don’t take her as you took the others.
Of all the prayers he’d ever sent up, that was the one he wanted most answered.
Felipe paused before the door of his family home.
The time had finally come. Tomorrow was here. He was about to spend his first night under this roof in over ten years.
He reached out to grab the door handle. It turned with only the faintest squeak, the door swinging in with the merest touch. The interior of the house was black, echoing.
He drew in a shaky breath. What to do now?
Were this a normal marriage, he would be carrying his bride across the threshold, thinking of all the dark delights they would soon share.
This was no normal marriage.
Given a choice, Franny might just carry him across the threshold. As for the dark delights, he might want them very, very badly, but he’d resolved not to taste them. They both had.
He turned to gesture her forward into the house before him. But she was looking at him with a gaze so solemn, so serious, he forgot what he’d intended. He found his hands going to her back and knees, lifting her as if it had always been what he’d planned.
Her arms went round his neck, trusting as a child’s. She didn’t laugh or smile, simply kept staring at him with copper eyes darkened to bronze.
Once they were past the threshold, he let her down, her length sliding against his. All her lovely flesh against his, and he couldn’t allow himself to appreciate it. Not if he meant to keep away from her.
She found a lamp and lit it while he remained frozen in the doorway. He told himself he waited to see what she would do, but that was only partly true.
Another part of him was reluctant to go further, to enter this house in the still of night and risk being overwhelmed by memories. Exhausted as he was, he didn’t think he could hold the emotions back.
She had no such reticence. She lifted the lamp high, peering this way and that—at the lace curtains, the freshly painted walls, the new window frames, the furniture her family had given them. The lamplight touched everything within its orb with gold, turning her into a gilded angel floating through the pressing darkness.
It was odd to see her there, a woman grown—and his wife to boot—walking through the halls his family had inhabited. It was as if he were seeing the present and the past together at once, all of him aching at the sight.
“This is new.” She ran her hand along the brand-new rocker, set right next to his old one. She looked up at him. “Did you make it?”
He nodded. Her hand trailing along the curved back stole the words from his throat.
“When?” She smiled at the chair.
He’d worked on it in snatches of time before the wedding. The curve of its back reminded him of the curve of her shoulders. The supple flair of its arms was based on the rounding of her hips. He’d imagined her long, strong thighs resting in that seat as he sanded and stained it.
He’d put every bit of his lust and longing for her into that chair, hoping that the wood would trap it for all time.
“I worked on it here and there,” he finally got out, “whenever I had a spare moment.”
“It’s lovely,” she said, her fingertips still caressing the chair. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he rasped. He cleared his throat. “Do you want to sit in it?”
Her smile turned beckoning. “Yes. You should rock for a while, too.” She gestured to his chair. “I know you like to.”
He sat in his familiar chair and they began to rock together. The creaks of the rockers against the floor spread through the room.
“Do you want to read?” Her voice was as soft as the light coming off the lamp she’d set on the mantel.
“No. I’m tired.”
“Me too. Long day.”
Yes, it had been. “You, uh, you looked very nice today.” Every bride deserved to hear that from her groom—and it was true. She’d looked very beautiful.
She’d cast off all her wedding finery—or more likely, her mother and sisters had peeled her out of it—and now wore a shirtwaist and skirt he’d never seen before. Perhaps they were a wedding gift—they certainly weren’t Isabel’s castoffs.
“You look nice too. Where did you get the suit?”
A groom liked to hear such things on his wedding day as well. “From the tailor in Pine Ridge. My other was a little worn.” He didn’t tell her he’d wanted something new and fine to wear when he married her.
“I suppose it’ll be your Sunday suit now.” She was looking at the lamp, her profile unreadable.
“Yes, I suppose it will.”
They rocked in silence, his stomach pulling into a tighter and tighter knot as the oddness of their situation weighed on him. It was their wedding night, yet here they were, rocking side by side, more chaste than a pair of saints.
In a few moments, he’d retire to his solitary bed.
Before he could rise and bid her good night, she was getting out of the chair, yawning. “I’ll wish you good night then.”
She began to head down the hall toward the bedrooms, then halted, looking back at him. “I—I don’t know which room is mine.”
Your room is mine, he could have said. Wanted to say. Instead, he grabbed the lamp and said, “I’ll show you.”
He brushed past her in the hallway, noting grimly how she moved away so as not to touch him.
“This one here,” he said, flicking a hand toward the bedroom door.
The room was as sparse and spartan as the rest of the house. Franny had no household items of her own to bring; all they had was what her mother and sister had suffered to donate to them. He hoped it would be enough. And then there was the matter of who would do the cooking. But that was something to worry about in the morning.
“Thank you.” She slipped past him and shut the door in his face.
Well, he had asked for that.
And deserved it, really.
He went to his own room, the room he’d had as a child. He threw himself fully clothed onto the bed, which was much too big for just one man. He set his arm across his eyes and waited, knowing that sleep would be long in coming tonight, with the memories pressing upon him.
If sleep came at all.