Felipe stretched in their bed as Franny gently snored next to him, the light of dawn still more gray than golden.
Sunday.
This would be his fourth Sunday as a married man.
He’d rise in a few moments, feed and water the stock, eat a quick bite with his wife, then dress for Mass. He would be next to Franny throughout the day, through Mass and a family dinner and then a walk by the creek.
Those were his Sundays now.
Before his marriage, his Sundays had been quite the same on the surface, yet completely different in the depths. Oh, he went to Mass and the family dinner, but after, he’d retire to his cottage to be alone.
Only him and his dogs and his father’s rocker and his books.
He looked over at Franny, curled into her repose, a strand of hair that had fallen across her mouth fluttering with each breath.
He would never be alone again on Sundays. He would never be alone again ever—not with her by his side.
A faint ringing, like that of a distant bell warning of fire, sounded at the thought. He knew how fickle life—and death—could be. She’d promised to never leave, but what were one woman’s promises against the fates and their fatal shears? Even if the woman in question was a goddess.
Her eyes opened, brighter than the dawn, and his dark fears fled like the night before the sun.
She made a fond little noise deep in her throat and threaded her fingers through the hair of his chest.
“Morning,” he said, the word as softly delighted as the sensations flooding him at the sight of her, so sleepily rumpled.
She didn’t answer, only smiled and snuggled closer. He wrapped his arms around her, her face nestling into his neck, the two of them just breathing together as the day awoke along with them.
“I’ve got to go feed,” he said after a time.
“I’ll find us something for breakfast.” She yawned widely. “I’m still so sleepy. I feel like I could spend all day sleeping.”
He frowned. She’d said that yesterday too. Perhaps he ought to leave her alone for a few nights, so that she might catch up on her rest.
Assuming that she left him alone.
“You sleep as long as you want,” he said. “I’ve got to get up.”
He dressed, ran through his chores, greeted his dog and hers, came back to eat a few bites of bread and cheese with his wife in the kitchen, then went to change into his wedding suit. The rhythms of a typical Sunday morning. Comforting rhythms, knowing that she would be with him the rest of the day.
He went back to the kitchen and watched as his wife took off her apron, looking as neat and combed as she ever did. She hung the apron on a hook, then joined him by the door, her hands smoothing down the front of his wedding suit. She gave his string tie a little tweak, then smiled up at him. “There. Now you’re perfect.”
He pulled her into his body and brushed a kiss against her lips, then again and again, kisses entirely without lust. Kisses that spoke only of love, affection, happiness.
He’d confessed his love for her and nothing terrible had happened.
He could think of no greater miracle.
“Thank you,” he whispered with each brush of his lips. “Thank you for being here with me.”
“I would never leave you alone,” she whispered back.
He believed her. He had to, else he might be utterly ruined and return to the shell he’d been before she’d crashed into him.
He kept her as close as he could throughout the rest of the day. She was tucked along his side during Mass, next to him as they rode to the Rancho Moreno for Sunday dinner with her family.
His family now too, he supposed.
The rancho looked much the same as it always had. Diego seemed to be doing a good enough job as the new overseer. Only—
“That herd needs to be moved soon,” Franny said, pointing to the pasture they were riding past.
“I’ll talk to Diego today. About that and cutting the hay this summer.”
“And ask Jace if he’ll keep on eye on the ranch while we’re gone next week.”
He smiled at her. “Yes, dear.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and he had to laugh.
Catarina and Jace and their brood were already at the Big House. While Franny helped her mother and sister with the dinner, he and Jace taught the boys how to rope. Or tried to. It was amusing and frustrating, and Felipe was glad he only had Franny to deal with day to day.
The table was laden with food when they came back in, all of them washed and combed. Although washing and combing the boys had been harder than doctoring a steer, since you couldn’t lasso them.
He and Jace settled the boys as the women brought out yet more food. Felipe went to sit in his usual spot and then she was back by his side, her expression downcast. Probably because she’d had to spend time with her mother.
He squeezed her hand under the table, not wanting her parents to see. The Señor and Señora never engaged in such displays of affection, and he didn’t want to bring on their displeasure.
Franny gave him a quick smile of thanks, but it was small and pinched. Perhaps her mother or sister had said something to upset her. He’d have to ask on the ride home.
“How are things, Felipe?” the Señor asked. But he looked at Franny as he spoke.
Felipe swallowed down his food. “Well enough,” he said. “We’ll be moving some of those cattle you gave us to the high country next week.”
The Señor nodded. “And you, Francisca? How are you?”
Her father missed her. Felipe could tell from the suppressed ache threaded through the Señor’s voice.
“I’m well, Papa,” she said. “I see that you have a bit more steel in your hair. I thought that would stop once I left.”
Her father smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, the tiredness leaving his face.
“I am glad to hear you’re well,” her mother said. “But what is this I hear of you hiring on a housekeeper?”
Franny went tense. His own limbs tightened in response to her distress.
“Yes.” She lifted her chin, looking remarkably like her mother. “We hired someone.” She threw an accusing glance at Catarina, who slightly shook her head.
No matter if Catarina had told or not—the Señora would have heard one way or another. He found Franny’s hand under the table, willing her to be calm. Her mother wasn’t saying anything too harsh.
“I don’t like to hear that my daughter is neglecting her wifely duties.” As gently spoken as if she were commenting on a kind of cake she didn’t like.
Franny kept her chin high, but her chest rose and fell with her increasingly labored breaths. He tightened his grip on her hand.
“It ought to be you,” her mother went on, “caring for your home, caring for your husband—”
“She’s my wife—shouldn’t I decide whether or not I’m satisfied with her housekeeping?”
A pin dropping would have been louder than a cannon in that silence. But he’d had enough of this badgering of his wife.
“Pardon?” the Señora asked, her mouth hanging slightly open.
He met her stare for stare—she wasn’t his mother. She didn’t scare him. He wouldn’t allow her to harangue Franny, to upset her.
“I’m her husband, and you have no say in what happens in our house.” She couldn’t argue with that. He was the master of the Rancho Ortega, not her. “My wife does as she pleases. And that pleases me.”
The Señora could say nothing to that. For all that she ran the rancho in secret, publicly she’d always held to the façade of male rule. A good Spanish woman never contradicted a man, and the Señora held tight to her image as a good Spanish woman.
Thank God Franny wasn’t a good Spanish woman.
His wife squeezed his hand, her eyes alight with awe and gratitude. And surprise. He gave her a triumphant little smile in return.
He carefully avoided the Señor’s gaze. Chiding the man’s wife wasn’t going to please him. Even if it was in defense of his favorite daughter.
“Well.” The Señora folded her hands together and put on her chilliest look. “If you say you are pleased, then I am pleased for you, Señor Ortega.”
“Thank you.” He turned to Franny. “I am well pleased with your daughter.” He filled his words with all the love he felt for her, let it spill over.
Her answering smile was filled with all the love she felt for him, shining right back.
Jace was coughing into his hand—or laughing hysterically and trying to hide it. Catarina was rolling her eyes, but a smile played at her lips too.
The Señor was not quite smiling. But there was approval in his gaze.
And a warning. He’d protect his own wife if he thought Felipe was going too far.
Well, let him warn. Felipe would always defend Franny. Always keep her safe. No matter who he angered.
“I can’t believe you did that!”
Franny bounced in her saddle, making her mare shy a bit. But she was much too excited to be still, and now that they were finally, finally riding home, she could speak with Felipe about the amazing thing he’d done.
Standing up to her mother—it was like facing down a dragon. And he’d done it without blinking.
For her. He’d done it for her. Her insides threatened to melt at the memory.
“You’re my wife,” he said gruffly. “No one scolds you. Except for me.”
She laughed. “Yes, you certainly like doing that. It’s just… I’ve never seen someone stand up to my mother before.” If it hadn’t happened right before her, she might not have believed it.
“You stood up to a mountain lion to save me. I can certainly stand up to your mother for you. You shouldn’t be frightened of her, though.”
Easy enough for him. He hadn’t a lifetime of maternal disapproval strapped to his back. “You don’t understand. She’s so cold. And unfeeling. I must be such a disappointment to her.”
Selfish. Headstrong. And Franny wasn’t even caring for her own house.
“I don’t think it’s that,” he said. She sent him a skeptical look. “No, truly. But I can’t claim to understand your mother that well.”
She doubted anyone understood her mother except for the lady herself. “Well, that makes for two of us.” Next Sunday’s dinner was certain to be interesting. Perhaps she’d be spared any comments on her housekeeping. But if her mother did feel the need to mention it, Felipe would—
Her belly clenched tight, pain twisting low and deep in her abdomen. She grimaced and twisted, trying to shake the ache loose.
“What’s wrong?” There was concern in his voice, but he hadn’t skipped straight to panic. That was promising.
“I think…” Heat crawled up her neck, annoying her. She had carnal knowledge of the man—she could discuss this with him. “I think it’s time for my monthlies.”
She looked to the sky as she calculated the dates. “Yes, the last time I had them was…” Before the wedding. The morning after that first time with him. “No, that can’t be right.”
Her heart skipped a beat. That couldn’t be right. She must have forgotten them happening after that.
They’d been so careful. And it was too soon for her to be pregnant from last night.
“When was the last time you had them?” There was a little scrape in his voice, no doubt from his own embarrassment.
“Just after that time that we—” She cleared her throat. “You know, the first time.”
Now it was his turn to redden. “Oh.”
“They were rather light then. And I’m probably forgetting when they came after.” She had to be.
Pain twisted her belly again, sharp and jagged and lingering. She let out a low moan as she grabbed at her midsection, trying to push the cramps away.
“Are they usually this bad?” The concern was rising in his voice.
“No. But perhaps it’s different now that I’m a married lady.”
He didn’t laugh. “What can I do to help?”
Kind, helpful Felipe. Thank God she’d married him. “Maybe make me a hot water bottle when we get home?” She fluttered her lashes at him. “And lie down with me?”
He did laugh then. “Are you milking this for sympathy?”
“Isn’t that what a proper wife is meant to do?”
“I don’t want a proper wife,” he growled. “I want you.”
Ah, Felipe. “That’s perhaps the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
She twisted and grimaced through the ride, but the pain remained bearable and intermittent. When they got home, he sent her off to the bedroom while he took care of the chores. She was already in her nightgown when he came back.
“Did you finish with the stock?” she asked.
He nodded. “I brought the water bottle. Is it worse?”
She liked this kind of fussing, the gentle kind, without any panic from him. “No. Get out of those clothes and lie down with me.”
He handed her the water bottle. She curled around it, holding it tight to her belly, right over her womb. That was better. She released a sigh. Much better. Her monthlies weren’t usually so fierce. Certainly never enough to have her retiring to bed.
Felipe slipped out of his own clothes, then curled around her, holding her tight.
“Better?” he whispered against her hair.
Nothing could be better than having him curled around her. “Oh yes. I’ll be right as rain in the morning.”
“Are you certain?”
“The cramps are already fading. I’ll be ready to run you to distraction again tomorrow.”
He didn’t answer straight away. Perhaps he didn’t believe her. “Lovely.” There was a hint of unease behind it—he was worried, but he wasn’t letting it run away with him.
“You wouldn’t have me any other way.” A little more teasing might ease his mind.
“Of course not,” he said, a touch of amusement there. “Now get some sleep.”
As she drifted off, a vision rose, of him holding her skirt as she leaned out over the cliff, searching for that lion. Their marriage would be like that—her stepping out as close to the edge as she could, him holding tight to keep her safe. He’d keep her from leaping off the edge, and she’d dare him to come closer to the edge than he ever would have on his own.
She fell asleep smiling.
For once, Franny wasn’t up with the sun.
Felipe stared down at her sleeping form, watching her pale face. She’d woken briefly an hour after sunrise, complained about being tired and dyspeptic, then fallen back asleep.
She was never sick.
Well, she certainly was now. But was it simply her courses? Or something more serious?
He wished he could ask Catarina, but that wasn’t something a man could ask another man’s wife.
He didn’t want to overreact. Franny hated it when he worried. He hated it when he worried.
His wife sighed and shifted, rolling onto her side, curling toward him. Her hair was a wild tangle trailing behind her, and his heart ached at the sight. He ought to have brushed and braided it for her last night. He went to the dresser and picked up her hairbrush. Untangling her hair was the least he could do, instead of simply watching and worrying.
He’d only passed the brush through her dark locks a few times before her eyes opened, quick and clear.
She was awake. Thank God.
“I feel better,” she said. But she remained twisted around her belly.
“No, you don’t. It’s mid-morning and you’ve been asleep this entire time.” But his heart lightened at her words, the tide of his anxiety receding a bit. Perhaps she’d only been very tired.
She loosed a yawn. “Have I? I feel so tired still.”
“How’s your stomach? You must be hungry.” He rose from the bed.
She caught at his hand. “Felipe, it really is nothing.” Begging him not to be concerned.
He put on the best smile he could manage. “If you say it’s nothing, then I believe you.”
But a small part of him, the part still under the shadow of his grief, didn’t.
She raised his hand to her mouth, pressing a kiss into his palm, her lips sending a shudder straight to his heart. “Would you finish brushing my hair?”
He nodded and she sat up, presenting him with her back and the fall of hair lying across it. He ran the brush through it, sweep after sweep, taking extra care with the snarls, so that she’d feel not even a hint of pain.
Both their breaths grew slow and deep, something heavier than exhaustion settling, her head bowing farther and farther as the brush moved in his hand. When her hair was free of tangles, he gathered the mass of it into a plait, restraining it for her. He leaned forward and kissed that beautiful little patch of skin between her ear and her hair. It was warm with her vitality.
And not hot with fever, thank God.
She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “See? Perfectly fine.”
She did look better. Perhaps it was only female troubles. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday. Let me get you something.” If she could eat, then it was likely nothing. Franny was never one to be put off her food.
She nodded and he rose from the bed. “Do you want some beans and tortillas or some jerky—?”
Her face went green. He only just grabbed the basin in time for her to heave over it. He ran a hand helplessly along the braid he’d created as she curled around the basin in obvious agony. He thought he might retch himself at the sight of her so painfully vulnerable. Instead, he held the basin for her with trembling hands, that small, almost insignificant gesture all he could do for her.
God, but he was useless.
She lay back when she was done, sweat blooming on her forehead and her hands shivering as she brought them to her belly.
He set the basin aside and grabbed a damp cloth to wipe across her forehead. It was clammy, but not fevered. She watched with a solemn gaze, no more protests coming to her pale lips.
His anxiety rose to high tide. “Franny, this can’t be normal. Can it?”
He wished he knew something—anything—about these things, rather than feeling so stupidly ineffective.
She scrubbed at her mouth with the cloth. “No, this has never happened before,” she admitted.
She never confessed to illness or injury. At least not voluntarily.
He set his jaw. “I’m fetching the doctor.” Hang the expense—she was truly ill. “And I don’t want to hear any more protests.”
She did the worst thing of all—she simply nodded. No arguments, no insistence she was fine—only meekness.
She was never meek.
And she was never sick.
She promised.