Rio Grande Wedding by Ruth Wind Read Free Book Online Page A

door.
    From around the corner came Leonardo, with that air of a busy tiger, a prize in his mouth. Molly smiled. “Found a sock, did you?” He adored socks for reasons Molly couldn’t fathom. He stole them from the laundry pile and the bathroom and bedroom floors, where she all too often left them, and carried them proudly to a corner of the dining room. He hustled now to that stash, where one green one and one pink-flowered one waited. The significance of the fact that the one he added now was white—and therefore belonged to Alejandro, sunk in. “Oh no you don’t Wait a minute, Leo.”
    â€œSeñora?”
    Deciding she could rescue the sock later, Molly rushed back down the hall. “Yes?”
    â€œI need...um...pants?”
    â€œOh!” Her eyes slid to the opening in the door, thinking of the silky hair on his thighs—
    Startled by the vividly erotic memory, she blinked. “Of course you do. I’ll be right back.”
    Pants. Hauling open a drawer in the heavy Spanish colonial pine bureau, she riffled through a stack of clothes that she’d been unable to bear getting rid of. “Ah-ha!” She grabbed a pair of drawstring gray sweats and hurried back. “Here you are,” she said.
    He stuck a hand out of the door, his face at the opening. “Gracias.”
    â€œI’ll wait this time.”
    In a moment, he opened the door and, holding on to the jamb, his shoulders hunched, he mugged an old man’s voice and posture, his feet shuffling. “El viejo needs you.”
    Molly laughed and settled his arm over her shoulder and tried not to notice the feeling of his body close to hers. He smelled of soap and peppermint toothpaste, a somehow intimate scent.
    At the doorway of the kitchen, he paused, lifting his head, his free hand still clasped to his chest “Oh, very nice.”
    â€œThanks,” she said briskly and deposited him in a chair. “Coffee?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    â€œAnything to put in it? Milk? Sugar?”
    He waved a hand as she settled a mug in front of him. “Everything.”
    Conscious of his frank gaze, Molly grabbed the sugar, then opened the fridge again for the milk, feeling a little heat in her cheeks as she thought of herself mooning over the eggs a few minutes ago. How embarrassing—she was acting as if she’d never looked at a man before.
    But no matter how she tried to keep her body in a normal posture, move it in the ways she’d moved it a thousand billion times over the thirty years of her life, it was impossible. She was aware of her fingers around the neck of the milk carton, aware of the swing of her arm as she took it out, aware of her knees moving her across the buff-colored ceramic tiles she’d laid herself, on those very knees. She was aware, especially, of her breasts beneath her T-shirt, and of her rear end when she turned around to start cooking breakfast.
    And worse, it was nothing he did to make her so aware. He did not stare inappropriately. His gaze did not particularly linger on her. He was polite and graceful, and openly looking around himself to see where he’d landed.
    It was just him. Having a man in her kitchen after so long, a man unrelated to her.
    â€œSeñora, may I ask what you learned about Jose-fina?”
    The formality of his words, the dignity in his question brought her to earth. With relief, she seized the sense of normality and broke eggs into a bowl, turning on the burner at the same time to heat the cast-iron skillet. “Very little, I’m afraid. I asked a sheriff if any children had been taken in the raid, and there were no girls her age. So she’s out there, somewhere.”
    â€œThank you.” He bowed his head.
    Beating eggs with a fork, she said, “How did you come to leave her behind?”
    He took a breath, blew it out “She cannot run so fast. I hid her.” He met her gaze. “I have no visa, no green