Chapter 16
Shep felt the truth of her words in his gut and wanted to curse, to strike out, to vomit. Instead, he remained as he was. “Did he force you?”
“Force me!” She reared away. “No. He was…” She cleared her throat. “Always he was the gentle man.”
“Always.” Honest to God, it would have been easier to hear that Santiago had been the monster Shep knew him to be, but he swallowed the implications of her words, let the truth roll over him. Let her talk. “When did it start?”
“Short time after Papa’s death.”
Good God! “How old were you?”
“Little older than Sofia is now.”
So young! Okay. True. He’d lost his virginity at the age of fifteen, but not to some old bastard who should die a hard death by a slow hand.
“Just…” Her lips twitched. “Small things at the start. A potted esperanza. A basket of chirimayas. But the gifts, they became more expensive. And I took them even after…even after I knew of his wishes.”
Shep steeled himself. “To sleep with ya.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “To marry me.”
He actually felt the blood drain from his face, but he calmed himself with an effort, inhaled slowly. “He wants to marry you?”
“I told him no. I cannot. But he…” She shook her head, closed her eyes. “Long I have been ashamed.”
Santiago was the one who should be ashamed. Who should be horse whipped. Hell! The bastard should be shot. “When was the last time?”
She swallowed, winced. “Just the week past.”
Oh God, he thought but kept his hand soft against her arm.
“He brought a silken shawl, and I did not refuse it.”
Seconds ticked away in silence, bearing a dozen questions. “Wait,” he said, cautious now, in case his foolish hopes were just that. “What’re we talkin’ ‘bout?”
“The privileges!” she hissed. “All the gifts. I should not have accepted them. I know he yet hopes. Even though I told him no. I will not marry him, he yet hopes. And why should I not wish to marry such a —“
“We’re talkin’ ‘bout gifts?” he rasped. “Flowers?” He snorted a laugh. “Fruit?”
“There are other things.” She sounded oddly offended now. Strangely insulted. “Clothing. Shoes. This!” she said and gripped the large emerald that hung between her tantalizing breasts.
It seemed weirdly sacrilegious that she wore another man’s jewel against the warm magic of her skin, but he shook his head, drove away the foolish thoughts. “Yer sayin’ ya took the things he bought ya.”
“Sí.”
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. “But ya didn’t sleep with him?”
Her eyes narrowed. Her lips pursed. “Already I have told you that I did not.”
“You just took some stuff he bought.”
“It is not merely stuff. Do you not see? He has not given up the hope. This stuff he would give to the one he loves. To the one he would marry.”
“But ya told him ya won’t.”
“Sí. Yet he does not believe. He is the wealthy man. The powerful man. The good—“
“Don’t say it,” he warned.
She raised her chin. “To me, he has been good,” she said. “So why should I not wish to marry him?”
Shep tried to relax, to understand the guilt infused in her tone. “You tell me.”
Her eyes were soft now, her gaze warm on his face as she lifted her hand, slow as a languid dream to his chest. Flesh to flesh, his skin burned beneath her fingertips. “Is it wrong of me to wish for more?”
“More?” he asked and held his breath, though he knew it was foolish.
“I did not expect to find this.”
Her touch enflamed him, but he remained still, caught in the depths of her devastating eyes. “What’re we talkin’ ‘bout here, Lotta?”
“Kindness. From an Americano. From a man. With a face such as yours.”
He wasn’t sure what to do with her words. With his feelings. So he went with his default. Humor. “This ol’ thing?”
She exhaled a soft laugh. “It is a beautiful face,” she said and swept her fingertips, light as a whisper, down his cheek. “A delectable, battle-scarred, breath-stopping face. But this you know. This everyone knows.” She paused, watched him. And the world stopped. “It is the rest that others might miss.”
“Yeah, the rest’a me is pretty damn hot, too.”
“You make the joke,” she said and didn’t drop her gaze. “But I think you know of what I speak.”
Honest to God, he didn’t have a clue.
“It is the good in you that others may not see.”
“Listen…” he said. “Let’s not get carried away here. Just ‘cause I’m helpin’ ya find your sister, don’t make me no saint. I mean…” He took her hand in his again. “Look at your own face. Ya ain’t exactly fish bait.”
“So if I were homely, you would not make the offer.”
He shrugged. “I’m just a guy.”
She pulled from his grip, touched the scar on his biceps. It seemed to pulse against her palm. “This dog…she must have been muy attractive.”
He grinned. “Eyes like an angel, remember? And a really great hair-coat.”
“I think I have never before met a man such as you, Linus Shepherd.”
He winced. “Listen, honey, nobody calls me Linus.”
She raised her brows. “How is it they call you?”
“Shep. Shepherd. Hey you.”
She shook her head. “This Shep, it is something one would call a hound, no?”
“I’ve heard worse.”
“What of those who care for you?”
Her fingers remained against his arm, burning a hole to his heart. He was having trouble thinking, and for a moment, speech was more than he could manage. But he shrugged, going for casual. His mother had called him Saddle Tramp, but he wasn’t pathetic enough to mention her or the fact that he yet carried a scrap of ribbon she’d worn in her sable hair.
“What of your parents?” she asked as if she’d read his mind.
He opened his mouth to lie, but she shushed him.
“The truth,” she insisted.
He exhaled, glanced toward the door. “They’ve been gone a long time.”
“What happened?”
“Hey, we’d better get goin’ if we’re gonna—“ he began and shifted to ease off the bed, but she tightened her grip.
“Tell me.”
He drew a hard breath. “I never met my old man. Guess he turned tail before I was born.”
“You guess?”
“Mama never talked about him much,” he said and thought back to her softness, her gentleness. “Never heard a bad word about him. Just said he was a good guy. A great man. And I was gonna be…” He paused, resisted clearing his throat. “Gonna be just as great.”
“What happened to her?”
“Cancer,” he said and couldn’t quite manage to say more. God, he was a weenie.
“I am sorry.”
He would’ve liked to say it didn’t matter anymore. So long ago. So far away. But it would matter until the day he died. Until the end of forever. Nobody, no matter who they were, fully recovered from the loss of a good woman.
“What did she call you?”
“Besides the handsomest kid ever born?” He tried for a joke. It sounded weak, pathetic, maybe because it was so close to the truth.
“Sí.” Her smile was heartbreakingly tender. “Besides that.”
“Tramp. She called me Saddle Tramp.” He told himself to stop, but memories were bubbling up, roiling in. “I was always on a pony. Ropin’ everythin’. Tree limbs, chickens, Grandpa’s cows when I thought I could get away with it.”
“He did not want you roping?”
“They were dairy cows. Said their milk would turn to butter before we could get it in a can if I didn’t quit rilin’ ‘em up. Said he’d tan my hide if it happened again.”
“And your mother? She would let this happen?”
“She was…” It was ridiculously difficult to finish the sentence. “She was…already gone by then.”
“Oh.” The word was soft as a sigh, as kind as a prayer. “I am sorry.”
He shook his head, trying to find that hard-ass side of himself he was sure he’d possessed just minutes before. “It’s no—“ he began, but she stopped him.
“Don’t,” she said. “Do not act as if your heart is not yet broken.”
“Listen, Lotta…she was a good gal. A great mama, but I’m a grown-ass man who—“
“Still misses her with every breath.”
He wanted to refute such a ridiculous sentiment, but he couldn’t.
“You spoke to her.”
“What?”
“While you were in Señor Tevio’s clinic. In my care, you spoke to her in your…how you say, delirio?”
Damn! Seriously? He’d talked to his mommy while unconscious? That was maybe the most pitiful thing he’d ever heard, but he went for the laugh again. “Yeah? She talk back?”
Carlotta didn’t smile. Didn’t answer.
“Or—“ he began, but she interrupted.
“She would be proud of you.”
His stomach heaved as if he’d been punched, and for a second, he couldn’t manage a simple denial, but finally, he shook his head. “You don’t know me, Lotta. What I’ve done. What I—“ he began, but she put a finger on his lips, stopping his words.
“I know what you are.”
He wouldn’t ask for clarifications. Wouldn’t beg for compliments. For assurance that his mother would be unashamed of the person he had become, but she spoke nevertheless.
“A good man. A fine man,” she said and, leaning forward ever so slightly, kissed him.
Fire struck his lips. Like a match on dry tinder, sending him reeling. Against his will, against his better judgment, he moved in.
Her breath brushed his face. Her breasts touched his chest. Her caring bruised his heart.
But a knock on the door had them jerking apart.