Sixty Acres and a Bride (13 page)

Weston couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Little minx. She was usually so demure, content to do heavy labor and monotonous tasks. No sign of that girl now. After talking to her that evening, he better understood her frustration. She was a Thoroughbred being made to pull a plow when she should be flying through the territory.

She held her skirt out to both sides and swung it with supple brown arms. She traced quick S’s in the air. Colored petticoats were visible with every beat of the music. She dipped. She swung. Silver bell earrings bounced against her neck as she tossed her head.

Rosa’s steps slowed as she fixed her gaze on Red. The playful smile settled into a sultry expression as she stalked toward him. Red’s eyebrows went up, and a silly grin spread across his mouth. He gaped as she spun around him, swinging her skirt high enough to slap him in the chest. She made one pass, then another while he stared openmouthed in a total lack of sophistication.

Rico wanted in on the game. He threw back his head and yelped like a coyote. “Stupid hombre,” he taunted. “He doesn’t know how to treat you, mariposa
bonita.
Come dance for me!” He assumed a matador pose, chest thrust out, shoulders back, and followed her path shamelessly with eyes as dark as her own.

Rosa didn’t go straight to him, but coyly worked her way through the group. One minute she stared at him brazenly, the next she peeked at him over her shoulder.

“Here she comes, Rico,” George called out. “I think you’re going to have your hands full.” The barn erupted in a chorus of laughter.

Even Aunt Mary got in on the fun, tapping her foot and slapping her leg. “What a show she’s putting on. Who knew she had it in her?”

Weston had to agree. And Rico hadn’t been fooling. No dancing was required of the men. All Weston had to do was watch. Around Rico she floated, her skirts undulating like a butterfly—no, more like a hummingbird.

Bailey increased the tempo, causing her wings to dart toward the young man and then sweep away. Rico acted the part of a proud don. He raised his hands shoulder height to clap, each sound corresponding to a step she took: a few slow and deliberate, then a spin and dip in rapid succession. The matador didn’t move an inch, and for all her rotations their eyes never left each other.

Weston’s gut wrenched. Why was she looking at the pup like that? And he was acting ridiculous. Puffing his chest out like a toad. Who did he think he was? But as much as he wanted to deny it, they made a striking couple. Passion to passion, they matched each other. If this miserable dance was going to reveal who loved her, they could end it now. He couldn’t imagine a more complementary dance partner for her. But it wasn’t over.

The guitar’s pulsating melody continued to envelop the humid barn floor. Rosa rounded Rico for the final pass of the set and for the first time during the dance faced Weston.

He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, but before he could understand its meaning, she pulled on the mask and resumed her character. She shamelessly met his gaze, allowing her eyes to go soft and then saucy. She pranced around him once, stepping off her territory before sweeping in toward her prey.

Hands above her head, she snapped out the rhythm with gyrating wrists and swaying elbows. His mouth went dry as she dallied at his side, her left foot pressed tightly against the inside of his right foot, his leg completely lost in her swaying skirts. He clenched his fists, knowing he looked like a fool.

“Oh lands,” he overheard Mary say. “He’s not happy. Not one bit.”

No, he wasn’t happy, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Rosa. Her cheeks were flushed, her forehead damp, and heaven help him, he couldn’t help but notice how hard she was breathing as she flitted so miraculously close without touching him. He tried not to look at her body, but her eyes were even more dangerous, dark and inviting, knowing and teasing. She was a stranger. Alluring? Absolutely! But not the woman he’d come to respect. But alluring . . . Absolutely! Alluring . . .

“That’s enough!” he blurted. Weston strode to the hay bale and yanked the guitar out of Bailey’s hands.

The barn went completely silent. The men stood awkwardly in their positions. Rosa’s skirts dropped to her side, her mouth fell open. Someone cleared their throat. Straw rustled as the cowboys leaned forward on the hay bales. Weston remained in the center of the observers, holding the guitar at arm’s length like a rattler.

He could hear Mary trying to find words, but nothing coherent came out of her mouth. The awful moment stretched until he felt his nerves would snap. Only Rico seemed amused by the situation. Staying out of Weston’s reach, he stepped over to Rosa and took her trembling hand.

“Now, señorita, the dance is over!”

Rosa gasped, snatched her hand from him, and ran out the door. Weston dropped the guitar in Bailey’s lap and followed her.

“Rosa!”

Her white blouse glowed in the darkness, but she wasn’t waiting on him. He ran to catch her before she disappeared into the sanctuary of the house.

“Rosa!” He grabbed her by the arm and swung her around.

“How dare you embarrass me like that!” she spat.

“I’d say you were embarrassing yourself without my help.”

Her hand flew up, but he caught her wrist. “Watch it, missy. If this is going to get physical, there’s a woodshed back there we can visit. Throwing you over my knee and giving you a good spanking sounds like a fine idea ’bout now.”

“Is that how a gentleman acts?”

“A gentleman? I’m the only one with enough sense to call that dance while you still had some shred of a reputation left. What are you supposed to do? See how far you can go with each man? Is that the game? The one who lets you debase yourself the most will be your true love?”

She shot daggers at him. “It’s a dance. There’s nothing debasing about it. And no, you’re so ignorant you don’t even know that you . . . that the dance . . .” she floundered.

“What about the dance?” She was hiding something from him. “Did you find him?” He took her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his gaze. “Who is your future lover?”

Was that disbelief on her face? She pushed his hand away. “The lover is the one who stops the dance—the one who won’t allow anyone else to be with his butterfly. That’s the sign of true love.”

Weston staggered to the edge of the porch. He’d played the part to a tee. Sure, he’d watched her too closely, followed her every movement possessively. And he could even admit he was jealous as she and Rico did their duet, but when she came to him, he couldn’t laugh it off like Red. He couldn’t play along like Rico. She held him spellbound, and like Joseph of the Bible, he had to flee temptation. He let out a long shaky breath. So now everyone in the barn knew the exact limits of his self-control.

Again, she reached for the door, but he caught her hand on the knob. “Please, Rosa. Stay a minute.”

“Why? So you can insult me again?”

“No.” He wiped his face hard, hoping to drag his anger away. “So I can cool down and apologize! I know I need to, but you’re just going to have to give me a minute before I feel like it!”

She stopped and fixed him with a cold stare. He took a few steps away and hooked his thumbs in his back pockets. His plaid-covered chest rose with deep, long draws as he attempted to catch his breath in the thick night air.

“Rosa, I—”

“What did you call me?” She wasn’t giving him an inch.

“I beg your pardon—Mrs. Garner . . .”

She shifted her weight to the other leg and continued to stare him down. How’d he get in this situation? The trollop who’d set him on fire only moments earlier had transformed into a haughty matron. He’d insulted the flirt and had to apologize to the widow.

“Mrs. Garner, my only desire is to help and protect you.” Wiping the memory of her smoldering looks from his mind, he focused on the proper, delicate lady in front of him, who currently didn’t seem to need help and protection. “If you knew me better, you’d understand that I’m only looking after your best interest. This is a rough land, and it can be extremely harsh on ladies who are vulnerable, and regardless of what you may think, you are vulnerable.” He stepped closer to her, but she took a quick step back. “You’re a lady and you’re family, and that means, whether you like it or not, I’m somewhat responsible for you. I’ve tried to take you under my wing—”

“There you go again,” she interrupted. “Taking a lady under your wing sounds too . . . too personal. You accuse
me
of impropriety . . .”

“I did not! Merely the appearance of impropriety. And that saying? Jesus said it! It’s not inappropriate at all. It’s like a mother hen caring for her chicks.”

“Oh, so you mean that I shouldn’t jump to conclusions if I’m ignorant of your culture?”

Weston watched, fascinated, as she adjusted her demeanor. Obviously she felt she had won the argument. Well, maybe she had, but he wasn’t budging from his opinion that she had no business dancing la mariposa, or whatever they wanted to call it, with American men. Tradition or not, Texans wouldn’t wait for a translation when they read those looks in a beautiful woman’s eyes. Rosa had to be unaware of the effect the dance had on men. She couldn’t have meant anything by it. Could she?

Time to bury the hatchet.

“Point taken.” He bowed gallantly to her. “I have never seen that dance before, and I am sure that it was danced in good taste and innocence. It was my ignorance—as you named it—that caused me to misinterpret your intentions.”

She nodded. “Thank you. I accept your apology.”

“But I’m not apologizing for stopping the dance.” She frowned, but he continued. “I’m still convinced, Mrs. Garner, that it would be a mistake for you to perform that particular dance again.”

Maybe weakness only affected him, but he suspected his brothers would have the same response. She shouldn’t be a stumbling block to them. “I won’t be the only man who misconstrues la mariposa. I just might be the only one honest enough to tell you. Sorry if that embarrasses you, but please don’t do it again.”

He didn’t wait for her consent. He’d said his piece, and he couldn’t get out of there quick enough. Wes turned to go, but she wasn’t finished with him yet.

“You should know that your dances would not be allowed in my village.”

He stopped, one foot already on the bottom step of the porch.

“What’s that?”

“Your dances—” she leaned toward him and added in a near whisper—“I find them shocking.”

“Go on.” He was intrigued.

“The way you . . . touch. Louise told me that you put your hands on each other. Never tonight did I touch a man.”

“No, but you sure looked like you wanted to.” He allowed a crooked grin to appear.

“But I didn’t!” She threw her hands in the air in protest. “There’s a difference.”

Tilting his head back, he rolled his eyes. “Are you talking about a square dance? That’s ridiculous. Even our waltzes don’t compare to what you just did in there.” He motioned to the barn, where the music had resumed.

“You mean that you can hold a woman like that and it doesn’t mean anything?”

“Yes, absolutely. I’ve danced with my sister, my aunts, and practically every woman in the county. It’s nothing.” Seeing her disbelief, he snatched her from the door and dragged her to the porch step. Positioning her on the step, he backed down one so that they were face to face.

“Don’t look like that. I’m not going to hurt you. Just pretend I’m a ewe.” Rosa narrowed her eyes at him, but he wasn’t dissuaded. Taking both of her hands, he dropped one on his shoulder and rotated her right hand, their palms sweeping across each other until the grasp was correct.

“Then we go completely
loco
and allow me to hold your waist . . . like this.” Her eyes grew wide at the feel of his hand on her thin shirt just above her hip. To be honest, he was taken aback, as well. Every woman he’d ever danced with had been so tightly corseted that he might as well hug the slop bucket, but not Rosa. He felt the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton fabric. He could tell where her ribcage ended and her pliable waist began.

Swallowing hard, he reminded himself what he was trying to prove. He couldn’t sabotage his own argument. They were separated on two different levels of the porch, making it impossible to actually perform the steps, so he improvised.

“Let’s do two steps this way.” He led her gently, paying heed to the music wafting across the yard. “Then two steps back. Pretty boring compared to your dances, but if we had a dance floor it’d be better.”

She stepped woodenly, completely unlike the exotic butterfly she’d portrayed earlier. Her hands trembled. Without thinking he ran his thumb over her palm, but her discomfort only increased. Maybe it was too quiet.

“Mrs. Garner?”

“Yes, Mr. Garner?”

Weston’s chest tightened. He forgot what he was going to say. Mr. and Mrs. Garner in each other’s arms, dancing the evening away. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be?
Oh, God,
please don’t cloud my thinking. Let me see this through clearly.

“I . . . ah . . . I wondered if you enjoyed this evening’s festivities.” When in a fix, dust off the old ballroom manners. “Are you looking forward to the fireworks tonight?”

She couldn’t answer. Obviously, she was flustered. Her lips quivered; her nimble feet hardly moved. “I don’t think I could ever get used to this.”

“That’s a pity,”
because I could.
“But if you would like to call it a night . . .” He released her waist and bowed before letting go of her hand, but instead of leaving, she stood rooted to the spot, looking at him in confusion.

“What is it, Mrs. Garner?”

“I’m not sure I should ask this . . .”

“You have my permission to ask me anything.”

The wind teased the stray wisps of her hair and the ribbon drawstring of her blouse, but besides that, nothing moved.

“Is this”—she placed her hand against her heart—“is this how you felt in the barn when I danced for you?”

His heart dropped somewhere inside his stomach. He felt it pounding away in there. She was a straight shooter, this little one, and she had no idea how potentially inflammatory her question was. Their eyes locked. The conversation could take one of two paths: a wide, seductive trail that would be breathless and exciting but leave them with entangled emotions, or the straight and narrow, which required him to love her like a sister and protect her, even from himself. She was his kinswoman. She deserved his best.