whispered, “Slow down and let me catch up.”
He stopped. “You’re getting all nervous on me, aren’t you? Next thing you’re going to say you have to go bake a pie, just walk on out of here like you got better things to do.”
She smiled. “There’s always work to do in the kitchen.”
He laid a finger against her lips. “And business to take care of here. Don’t you leave me. Not yet.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She flinched at the tickle of his hair against her face, his mouth moving across her nape, but after a few minutes there was no more important task in the world than arching her body to meet his hand, the middle finger pressing deep inside her where the slippery wetness let him know she was now ready. Rose bit her lip, trying to measure out all this sensation so that she wouldn’t come as quickly as her body seemed to want to do. She circled her fingers around his wrist and pulled him away, placed his hand on her thigh, letting him know that she wanted him inside. Everything he did to her erased her memories of Philip’s touch.
In quiet moments, she’d stop to think of the way Austin’s hands felt against her body and compare that to twenty years of sex in her marriage, stunned that at forty, merely the
idea
that these slow dance steps they were taking could cause her to feel so alive. It was as if her body’s edges were revising. Over the past two years, there were times she’d felt if not virginal again, so completely cloistered that she might as well be. And a part of her was comfortable with that, wanted to run out of the room, grab a bridle, and ride Max at a dead gallop as far as the old horse could go. But this was a morning of sacrifices, and to leave now would be to thumb her nose at this fragile man’s taking the risk.
You listen
, she scolded herself, deep inside where rational thought kept trying to intrude.
The horse won’t die from neighing, and if me lying here allows a few mice to grow fat on spilled corn, so what
? She raised her arms and wrapped them tightly around Austin’s shoulders. He thrust himself inside her. The bittersweet surrender caused each to look into the other’s eyes, gravely acknowledging the significance of this moment.
Outside, thanks to a storm that had spiraled its way down from the frigid Gulf of Alaska, Floralee’s temperature was dropping, snow flurries were swirling in white eddies across the yard, and in this bed a great heat spread over it all. As the weather gathered its forces, flakes began to cover the path Rose had worked so hard to clear. The falling
snow obliterated the coffee stain from the yard. The old gelding turned his back on the day to retreat to the warmth of the barn, and nosed his empty grain bucket. Time passed lazily while Rose and Austin walked each other along a new path to the same old aston- ishing mountaintop. At the very peak, in the middle of all that ice, one waterfall still ran, determined, warm, and purposeful, eternally proclaiming spring.
When the new magazines arrived in the morning mail, Rose set them aside to put into their protective covers after she finished paying the bills. Imagine, December’s issues, and it wasn’t Thanksgiving yet. She didn’t understand why retailers hurried the holiday season along. By the time Christmas arrived, people were sick of it. She entered invoices into the computer and backed up her files. Just be- fore lunch she tucked the magazines under her arm and ran down- stairs to ask Paloma what had become of the large manila envelopes she’d bought just a few weeks earlier.
Paloma was busy on the phone, so Rose took the opportunity to switch last month’s issues. In
New Mexico
, where she flipped to the magazine’s center so she could insert the metal bar that held the plastic cover in place, an ad for the Storyteller Indian Arts Gallery caught her eye. The three-quarter-page layout featured a dark-haired model standing with her legs splayed suggestively. Next to her stood an Irish setter, his tail a blurry red flag. The woman wore ankle-high tooled leather boots with silver toe caps. Around her sculpted shoulders she clasped a black suede cape, onto which various violet, bright orange, and crimson lightning bolts, Hopi-style sun faces, and abstract shapes had been appliquéd. All down the front, en- graved silver
concha
buttons caught and reflected the light. Beneath the cape, it appeared as if the model wore nothing at all. Her straight black hair was blowing away from her bare shoulders into an attract- ively tousled mess, and on her face she wore a defiant pout that only intensified her sensuality. It was a fabulous garment, Rose thought, though what capes had to do with storytellers and art was beyond her comprehension. She started to flip the page, but Paloma slapped her hand down on top of it. Still on the phone, she tapped at the model’s face and Rose tried to figure out what that meant. Cupping her hand over the receiver she whispered, “
Mira
.”
Of course. How could Rose have missed it? The model wasn’t some
anonymous face hired to look compelling in order to sell art, she was Leah Donavan. Rose had forgotten how truly beautiful the woman was. She turned the magazine facedown, put the others into their covers while she waited for Paloma to hang up the phone.
The minute she did, Paloma turned the magazine over. “
Que tu pensar
?”
“I think it’s a beautiful cape. And I bet it costs more than my car is worth. Do you know where those large envelopes are? I need them to mail out some X rays to Doctor Zeissel.”
Paloma tsked. “You have better
pechitos
, plus you can tell she’s had a face-lift. Look at the chin. It defies gravity!
Perita en dulce
, that one. She has no shame showing her body like that, even in her ho- metown, and at her age, she should.”
Rose studied the picture again. For a woman nearing fifty, face lift or not, Leah Donavan’s looks ranked her in Mami’s league. “She has the kind of body that doesn’t have to feel ashamed.”
“Rose! She’s unhappy and a drunk, besides. Probably she posed for this only to drive Austin
loco
. It’s not like she needs the money, since she took most of his. Quick, rip out the page so he won’t see it. That would be all the excuse he’d need to start drinking again.” “No. If all it takes is a magazine to make him fall off the wagon,
then Austin’s really in trouble.”
The reception door opened, letting in a blast of chill air. A woman entered carrying two gray kittens who couldn’t have been close to weaning age. “Look what I found in my barn,” she said. “I have no idea how long they’ve been there. I don’t even own a cat. You can feel their little ribs, and they won’t stop crying. I tried to get them to lap up some milk but they didn’t know how. Do you think they’re going to live?”
Paloma adopted a businesslike stance. “Cats are pretty tough. With bottle-feeding, there’s every chance they’ll make it. We can’t take them, you know. We’re not a shelter.”
The woman smiled a sad smile. “I figured as much. I didn’t think it would hurt to ask, though. Can you give me directions to the nearest shelter?”
“Those kittens are too young to go to a shelter,” Paloma scolded. “We sell bottles and Kitten Milk Replacement formula. You can feed them yourself.”
“I have to go out of town tomorrow on a business trip.”
Paloma sighed. She handed over a sheet of paper and a marking pen. “You can make a sign and leave it on the bulletin board.”
“People always want kittens at Christmastime,” Rose offered. She took both babies from the woman’s hands. Their ears were still crumpled like little seashells, and their paws were so small they barely wrapped around her thumbs.
The woman paused in her writing. “Can you tell me their sex? I think that should go on the sign.”
Rose shook her head. “The young ones always fool me. Let me run them into the back and ask the doctor.”
“Thanks.”
In the surgical area, Austin was about to begin a spay on a golden retriever. Rose held up the kittens’ tails. “Male or female?”
He squinted before he answered. “Both female.” “How old?”
“I’d say four weeks at the outside.” “Thanks.” She started for the doorway. “Rose. Who do they belong to?”
“Some woman found them abandoned in her barn. She’s going to take them to the shelter.”
“You tell her to leave the kittens here. They need bottle-feeding or they’re not going to make it.”
“Okay.” Rose cupped the kittens close to her breasts and felt the rumble of the stronger one’s purr. It was a common myth that cats purred purely out of contentment, but that wasn’t true. They also purred when they were frightened or in extreme pain. She’d held an old calico for Austin once while he put her down. The cat was full of cancer, and her owner had tried every avenue to keep her alive and comfortable. It was time to let go, but she was too dis- traught to stay in the room for the euthanasia. Rose would never forget the strength of the cat’s purring against her hands, or the moment when the vibration wound down, and the silence that fol- lowed.
Austin leaned over the dog and deftly made his incision. There would be no unwanted offspring in this dog’s life. Tomorrow she’d go home to her owner with staples in her belly to live without the complication of motherhood. He kept neutering charges to a minim- um, and on the Pueblos performed the procedures at no charge.
Rose took the kittens into the quarantine room, padding their cage with clean towels. After she told the woman that this was her lucky day, that Dr. Donavan was feeling generous, Rose opened a can of KMR and made a thin paste of formula and baby cereal. As soon as they got the idea, the kittens were gluttonous, crawling over each other to get to the nipple. Rose and Paloma took turns feeding them until the kittens’ tummies were round and warm. Rose forgot about lunch. She got no more work done at all that day, and Paloma kept running back and forth from the reception desk to the quarantine room to see how they were doing. “Nacio will kill me if I bring home another cat,” she said, “but these two
hermanas
should not be separ- ated.”
“Somebody will want them, Paloma. They’re precious.”
“
Sí
, and they need to be fed every couple of hours. They won’t seem too precious at three in the morning, when they need cuddling the most.”
“We’ll ask Rey to feed them. He’ll welcome a chance to sit around and play with babies. It beats cleaning cages.”
Paloma held the smaller of the kittens in her wide, brown hands. “You think the mother cat got hit by a car?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“She wouldn’t just abandon her babies. No mother does that willingly. Something must have happened.”
Rose nodded. They never talked about it, but long ago Paloma had confided in Rose that she couldn’t have children. Rose would never say so out loud for fear of hurting her friend’s feelings, but sometimes it was the other way around, and kids abandoned the mother. All around her sacks of dog food were stacked up high, special diets and top quality feed, inventory that moved quickly in and out of the small room. The aroma of lamb and rice was strong. With dogs’ ultrasensitive sense of smell, Rose always imagined that it had to be torture for whoever was lodged in the quarantine room. Today, however, all the other animals were in regular boarding or the hospital section. The phone rang, and Paloma reluctantly got up to answer it. Rose shut the kittens in the cage and washed her hands. She figured she’d better get on the road before the snow got too deep to travel through.
She walked past Austin in the operating room, totally immersed in his work. Bent over the table like that, his surgical greens pulled tight against his back, the vet looked deceptively thin. Sharp edges weren’t
the sum of Austin Donavan, though. While he slept, Rose trailed her hand along his back, lightly marking the placement of each rib, her hand coming to rest on the angle of his hipbone. For all that in- ternal conflict, the man hardly moved once he lay down. Maybe she’d see him later, maybe not. She knew this was one of his meeting nights, and that sometimes he needed to be alone for a couple of days afterward. What they had seemed to be fairly solid now, seemed to have moved onto a level playing field. She wondered if Austin would automatically expect Thanksgiving dinner at her place, just the two of them together at her table, or if she should spend the holiday as she had the last few years, with her folks. Mami left her invitations open. Her feelings wouldn’t be hurt if Rose didn’t come. Various artists and writers spent a great deal of time and energy angling for an invitation to the Wilder ranch for Thanksgiving. As a result of that, their holiday fetes frequently became town legends. Should she invite Austin to go to her parents’ with her? Was that assuming too much? Lily was back in California, working. Lily ig- nored holidays. Rose was ignoring Lily. For weeks now, neither sister had held out the olive branch.
File that under the big Oh Well
, Rose told herself, but she often thought about her, and missed her. It was unlikely that Chance and Amanda would show up, but the mother in her was already mixing the aromatic dough for cranberry- orange-walnut muffins, which Amanda loved, and filling the seasoned cavity of a turkey with sage-and-hazelnut stuffing, Second Chance’s favorite.
Floralee enjoyed a week of balmy weather that melted the snow down to a thin crust. Only under the trees did the larger drifts persist. Then a second storm blew in, and the first blizzard of the year was officially announced. “You should go home early,” Austin said as he leaned over Rose’s desk signing checks. “You don’t want to get stuck in this.”
“I have four-wheel drive. You’re the one who might have to call a tow truck. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll fix us an early dinner. Corn chowder and biscuits.”
Austin slid the checks toward her. “I’ve been neglecting my horse, and Bijou’s just about turned into a mental case. Think I’d better stay the night in my own place for a change. Besides, all your cooking is making me fat.”
Austin, who had to have a third of the links removed from his
watchband. It wasn’t like she was forcing him to eat. “Okay.” Rose tucked the checks into their proper envelopes and sealed them. The post office wasn’t on her way home, but she didn’t mind swinging by. While she was in town, she could pick up a few things, see some old faces, maybe buy a new paperback. She had grown up in snow like this. The best advice for driving in snow was to take things slowly. Only one time that she could remember had she gotten stuck, and that was in Philip’s car. She took a breath and said, “Thanksgiv- ing’s coming up.”