His Temporary Wife Read online

  His Temporary Wife

  Leslie P. García

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2014 by Leslie P. García.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-8094-4

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8094-9

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-8095-2

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8095-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/katielittle25

  Working for minimum wage at a retail building supply store while raising children and crossing the border from Laredo into Nuevo Laredo may seem to be an adventure, but it drains a body of dreams and the energy to chase them. Fortunately, at a difficult point in my life, I met Maria Eugenia Lopez. Jeannie was bubbly and energetic, friendly—perky, even—all the things I wasn’t. A gifted woman, Jeannie put herself through college and shared her music and writing with me. Most of all, she kept telling me I could. I could write. I could go to college in spite of four young children and no money. I could.

  Without Jeannie I couldn’t have, or wouldn’t have known that I could. Jeannie, thanks for being the friend who listened to my writing, and let me listen to your songs and poems—the work we always promised each other would be published “someday.” Thanks for teaching me there really was a someday, and that because of you—it’s here.

  Acknowledgments

  We live in a world where there are at least two truths: there’s an app for everything, and there’s a country song for everything. His Temporary Wife let me indulge my passion for country music while telling the story of Esmeralda Salinas and Rafael Benton, and the very different roads that bring them together—for love or for money.

  I owe special thanks to author and karaoke guru MJ Schiller. I don’t do karaoke, but if I did, I’d do it like her. She taught me everything I know about the practice, and I’m grateful for that. By the way, there’s a song for that—Toby Keith and Jimmy Buffet’s “Too Drunk to Karaoke.” A song for everything, I tell you!

  I’ve lived in Laredo for thirty plus years, and I eat out occasionally. But not often enough or widely enough that I could decide where former Laredoans would eat if they came back for a brief visit. I can’t name all my Facebook friends who commented, but want to thank Norma Y. Flores, Mary Lopez Perez, Jamie Ortiz, Lourdes Jasso, Emma Perales Gonzalez, Gina Oceguera, and Erica P. Salinas for their boisterous discussion of the nominated restaurants. To find out where “real” Laredoans would go after a lengthy absence, read on.

  Without my sister Victoria M. Potter, I’d crash any book three or four times and never recover it, and that doesn’t account for the times I e-mail her in the middle of the night to look something over. She’s a skillful editor, a great writer—if I’d just give her the time to write—and an incredible sister.

  Finally, I can’t give enough credit to my Crimson Romance editors Tara Gelsomino, Julie Sturgeon, and Jess Verdi. For most of my life, I wanted to be able to say “my editors,” but it was more a product of romanticized hope than an acceptance that editors are key to good writing. Tara, thanks for wanting His Temporary Wife. Julie, how you can keep me organized and more or less functioning on schedule, I’m not sure. And Jess—wow. Your ability to spot both the gaping holes and the missed punctuation in a story astounds. Without your help, His Temporary Wife would be a rough draft rather than a finished story. Thanks.

  Leslie

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Author

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  Esmeralda Salinas leaned forward over the wheel of the rented pickup and peered at the road ahead. It disappeared between two sheer cuts, dotted on both sides with scrub cedar and large rocks that looked likely to fall onto the road at any minute.

  In spite of the cold air blasting out of the air conditioning vents, blowing loose tendrils of hair around her forehead, beads of sweat trickled down her cheeks.

  “And I thought I could drive anywhere!” she muttered and glanced momentarily into the rearview mirror, checking the horse trailer behind her, carrying all she had of her past. She couldn’t see her Appaloosa mare, Domatrix, of course, but the late-model trailer seemed to be riding well and taking the curves.

  She glanced at her dash and gulped air. Three, maybe four minutes more of the treacherous Hill Country back road and she’d come out on the state blacktop taking her into tiny Truth, Texas. Taking her home—if you could call a town you’d never been in, home.

  Her tension eased when she turned gently onto the asphalt. She could have gone a longer way around and spared herself a lot of stress and worry for the mare’s safety, but she had been in the Hill Country years ago and hadn’t thought the “hills” were particularly frightening. A boyfriend had been driving then, and she couldn’t say she remembered the narrow roads, the twists, or much of anything.

  With relief she reached out and turned on the radio, immediately picking up a country station out of San Antonio. The station reached most of central Texas and had been her favorite back in Rose Creek.

  She knew the song immediately and joined in, reveling in the music. A car on the other side of the two-lane road passed and the driver waved. She waved back, something she’d done routinely since she got off the interstate. Seemed all the drivers were friendly, even more than they’d been in Rose Creek. Maybe she could truly find a home here.

  The next song blasted out, a song that had been huge for the singer Cody Benton. “Afraid for You” had rocketed up the charts to number one, and Cody was tagged as country music’s next goddess. But she’d died in a drug-induced stupor, right here in Truth. Esme slowed as she coasted over a hill and passed the sign welcoming her to town. Goose bumps peppered her arms as she noticed the large billboard “In Memory of Cody Benton,” and her anger pricked. She didn’t remember Cody being born here or living here for much of her short life. Couldn’t the town find a more tasteful salute to the woman than claiming her memory?

  Still, Cody had brought Esme here in a way, so maybe she shouldn’t be so judgmental. She bit her lip. She’d planned on leaving Rose Creek for some time, planned on going somewhere bigger, with women who didn’t know and fear her, and men who didn’t look at her with way too much interest. She’d made some poor personal choices over the years and just knew it was time to go. She’d been surprised and touched that her formal rival, Luz Wilkinson—Luz Estes now, she reminded herself, glad that it didn’t hurt at all—held
a small party the night before she left. Even the town veterinarian came, a clear sign of forgiveness for her trying to snag the doctor’s husband for her own.

  She’d chosen to come here to Truth because she’d heard her aunt was here now, and because of a late-night interview she’d seen with Cody Benton shortly before the singer’s death. Cody had been vamping with the host, who’d asked her why she was spending so much time in a “one-horse town.”

  Cody had laughed and answered that she owned two horses herself, so that problem was solved. And then she’d winked, “If your life’s been a lie, maybe you should try a little truth.”

  Whether or not the line had been rehearsed, Esmeralda couldn’t forget it. And when she decided for sure to leave Rose Creek, she headed northwest without a moment of indecision.

  Esmeralda saw her destination ahead on the right and slowed almost subconsciously. So here she was, about to drop in on the aunt she hardly knew. Tina Cervantes, her mother’s sister, had visited three or four times over twenty-odd years. Once she’d gone to college, Esmeralda hadn’t seen her aunt again. She could count on both hands the times they’d spoken on the phone, too. Tina had called to wish her a happy birthday about four months ago, not really near her birthday. Esmeralda didn’t tell her she was two months late; she just relished the brief contact with the woman she always thought would have been a better mother than her own had been.

  And now here she was, jobless and homeless, hoping to find the roots she’d struggled to cut when she’d left home back in Laredo, fleeing from cold parents and an abusive brother, heading up the I-35 corridor until she settled in Rose Creek. Gregarious and independent, Tina always insisted that Esmeralda should visit. Once, long ago, she’d offered her house, “any time, just come on over.” Tina was living in Chicago then, with a man she’d never mentioned before, and Esmeralda would never have considered going. Besides, she’d been perfectly happy in Rose Creek with its proximity to San Antonio, and its easy driving distance to Laredo for those infrequent visits to her parents.

  She turned carefully onto the side street running along the weathered-wood look exterior of Tía’s. The neon sign outside the club was unlit, but pictured a smiling woman surrounded by an explosion of stars.

  Somehow the sign sent confidence surging through her. If Tina billed herself as the town’s “aunt,” or tía, then surely she’d be delighted to have her only real niece turn up out of the blue. Right?

  Apparently the business catered to an evening crowd; only two cars were in the parking lot and their proximity to the side door suggested employees, not clients. Esmeralda parked carefully, taking up a lot of space, but being sure delivery trucks or anyone cutting through the large parking lot could maneuver around the trailer. She disliked leaving the mare unattended, but couldn’t see driving out to the farm where she’d found a stall for rent until she’d spoken to her aunt.

  When she opened the side window, Domatrix immediately stuck her velvety nose in the opening and nickered plaintively.

  “Five minutes,” Esme promised. “I’ll get you out of here before you know it!” Gently pushing the mare’s nose back in, she fastened the panel, drew a deep breath, and headed off to find her aunt.

  The front door was locked. She should have just tried the back. Esme glanced around. Across the street, a restaurant had customers going in and coming out. Probably the social hub of the town, she decided. The three—three!—bars in Truth undoubtedly catered to the cowboy and tourist crowd that wouldn’t be in town until nightfall. Next to the restaurant, a neat, cheeky little salon sported a sign claiming to offer “Truth In Beauty.” She smiled and retraced her steps, seeing a large pickup, dark and gleaming, slide into a nearby space.

  The back door opened, letting her into a brightly lit food-preparation area. She could smell oregano-spiced menudo simmering on a stove and hear the sound of someone humming from somewhere unseen.

  “Hello? Tina? Anyone home?” Esmeralda called, reluctant to go any deeper into this unknown place and startle someone, or set off an alarm. She moved a step or two farther along the island, and stopped short, her attention snared by the mirrored back of the door separating—she supposed—the club area from the kitchen. She brushed at the strands of hair that had come loose during the drive—light auburn hair made darker by the dampness from heat and drive-induced stress. Her breath caught suddenly in her throat as a figure loomed behind her, light glinting off almost-black hair, brown eyes spearing her own in the mirror—a formidable, unexpected stranger.

  But surely this person wouldn’t have just walked in if he didn’t have that right. Apprehension dissipated with the logic, and she turned and held out a hand, hoping it wasn’t as damp as her hair.

  “Hello. I’m Esmeralda Salinas, Tina’s niece.” His brows went up slightly, as if her introduction surprised him. Did he know her aunt, then? He didn’t look like a delivery man, in his Western shirt, creased pants, and polished boots.

  Her parents had called Tina some awful names, in Spanish and English. The kindest thing Esme could remember hearing from her mother was that Tina “liked men.” Could this man be her partner? The names, and the possibility of a man or men in her aunt’s life, didn’t bother her. Lord knew she’d been pegged, usually by other women, as everything from a tramp to a whore. None of the labels were true, but she never disclaimed them—gossips wouldn’t change their minds and she didn’t care. But her aunt might not appreciate her deciding to just drop by and say hello, taking her up on that long-standing invitation to come any time.

  Esme ignored the misgivings. If her aunt didn’t have room or time for her, she’d hang around a day or two and move on. She had a degree, a few dollars in the bank, and absolute confidence in her own abilities.

  The man still hadn’t answered. She arched her own brow. “And you are?” she prompted, with a tinge of sarcasm.

  His head moved back slightly, almost as if he weren’t used to being challenged. Then he smiled and took her hand. “Rafael Benton.”

  Her hand tingled under the firm pressure of his, but she ignored it. She’d come to Truth to find herself again, not a man. She’d committed a professional blunder back in Rose Creek, toying with a six-year-old’s emotions because she wanted the little girl’s father. One could argue that she hadn’t done any real harm, but she expected more from herself. Always.

  He released her hand and took a step back, but she could swear he was looking at her left hand.

  Did he wonder if she was married? Was he thinking about striking up a conversation? Finding a way to ask her out? He’d better not be involved with her aunt, then. She’d been burned more than once thinking a man was free. Or giving herself free rein to pursue men who weren’t available, figuring it didn’t matter to her if their own women couldn’t keep them from straying. Never again, she vowed.

  He didn’t toss her compliments or suggestive lines, though, just peered past her at the door. “You caught me by surprise. Tía never mentioned having a niece.” He seemed to think that would hurt her feelings, judging from momentary awkwardness in his quick glance her way. “Not that we’ve spoken often.”

  The humming stopped and Esmeralda heard something fall, followed by a brief curse in Spanish. Then a woman emerged, her apron spattered, but her thin face changing from annoyed to pleased as she greeted Rafael.

  “Rafa! How are you?” Then dark eyes turned her way and Esmeralda sensed immediate suspicion.

  “Yes? May I help you?” she demanded, wiping her hands on the sides of her apron.

  “I’m Esmeralda—Esme Salinas. Tina’s niece.”

  “Her niece—oh.” At least this woman, who clearly worked for her aunt, didn’t seem surprised that Tina had a niece. Startled, maybe, but not surprised. She walked over to offer her hand to Esmeralda, giving her a polite nod. “I’m Angelica Morales, but your aunt calls me Angel.” A slight smile lightened her expression. “Tía says a place like this in a town like Truth needs every angel it can get.”

  �
��She isn’t wrong about that,” Rafael Benton muttered and both women shot him a glance. He shrugged and added, “You should know, the place I live is called Witches Haven by the locals.”

  “Rafa,” Angel scolded, her face troubled. “Why would you even repeat such gossip? Hasn’t there been enough trouble in this town without helping it along?”

  His lips tightened and his chin tilted, making him look angry and a little intimidating. “The trouble isn’t with a house on a hill, Angel. We both know that witches had nothing to do with this town’s personal slide into hell.”

  The bitterness and darkness of his words bothered Esmeralda more than they should. “Well, it was nice to meet both of you,” she said robotically. “I’ll come see Tina later. Do you think she will be in later, Ms. Morales?”

  “Tía comes in every day. Mostly.” She glanced at a decorative clock on the wall. “About an hour, I imagine. She always comes in to check before we open at four. You can wait—”

  “No, thank you. I have a horse with me, and I need to get her unloaded. I’ll drop by in a while.” She nodded briefly and left.

  She had her hand on the doorknob when she heard Rafael’s voice, low and fierce, as he whispered to Angel, “I’ll kill her.

  Chapter Two

  Twenty-five minutes more of twisting Hill Country roads and fingers knotted around a steering wheel brought Esmeralda to a small piece of land with a modest, well-kept home and a miniscule shed encircled by an equally tiny corral.

  “It’s perfectly safe, ma’am,” the landowner assured her, his weathered face creased into lines of weariness. He hitched up his overalls.

  “I thought you had a closed stall, Mr. Peterson,” Esmeralda protested, hating the feeling that turning him down would hurt him financially, but not willing to leave her mare here in the middle of nowhere exposed to any bad weather that might blow in. She couldn’t see any hazards in the corral, and the fence looked sound, but …