to help her with the house or the livestock? Had the Mexican alleged to be her lover been the only employee the Gillespies had?
Could she be in the barn, gathering eggs or doing some similar chore? He walked around the side of the house.
Was the ache of regret never going to get any easier to bear? Olivia wondered, standing in the shade of the big cottonwood tree that stood in the backyard between the house and the barn. She stared down at the makeshift grave marker, which was actually a hunk of limestone she’d waded into the spring to get. Smoothed and rounded by centuries of running water, it had been as heavy as her heart felt now. Behind it, she’d lashed two sticks together to form a cross. Someone—one of his Mexican friends or relatives, she assumed—had hung a rosary on the cross and left three roses in an earthen jar. She never saw these offerings left; she assumed whoever brought them came at dawn or after dark, or during the rare times she went to the stores in town.
Francisco, you deserve better than this, she thought, feeling the familiar stinging of tears in her eyes. You deserve better than a makeshift marker and a grave in the yard of the woman whose lover they say you were. But the sheriff had had a vicious sense of humor and had insisted Francisco be buried here—”so you don’t ever forgit what you done, Miz Gillespie.”
Livy had half expected the Mexicans in the community to move Luna’s body in the dark of night to someplace else—to one of their yards over on North Street, perhaps, for there was no Catholic church in Gillespie Springs. But maybe they felt Francisco had already suffered enough, for the grave had not been disturbed.
Rest in peace, Francisco. You know and I know it was all a lie.
Something—a rustling in the grass, a snapping of some tiny twig—warned her she was no longer alone.
She whirled, already wondering what she could use for a weapon, for she hadn’t had one the last time she’d been taken by surprise.
The man standing at the edge of the tree’s shade was a stranger to her, yet not a stranger—tall and lean, his hair streaked with gray, a patch over his right eye. It was the latter detail that caused the hand that had curved instinctively over her abdomen to relax.
“Cal?” she breathed. “What are you doing here? Are you…are you all right?” she asked, remembering the day she’d seen him in Bryan, beaten senseless to within an inch of his life. “You—you’re growing a mustache…” she babbled, as he came closer.
He smoothed long fingers over it self-consciously. “Yeah, I thought it might cover up one of my new scars, at least. But I’ve mended, thanks to you. Sam told me what you did that day, and I—I just came to thank you. I reckon I might be singin’ with the angels now—or worse—if you hadn’t shot off that gun.”
“I—I didn’t even know who you were when I stepped forward,” she said, staring at him, seeing a new scar on his cheek. Even in the shadows she could see the faint discoloration that remained around his left eye.
“Or you wouldn’t have helped me?” His mouth curved into an ironic smile, a smile that transformed the scarred face into one that still had the power to make her heart pound.
“No! Yes! I meant I…well, I would have helped anyone in your position,” she said, feeling flustered. “I— I just didn’t find out it was you until one of those rowdies said you deserved it because of fighting for the Yankees,” she added, but when she saw his face cloud over at the mention of the war, she wished she could unsay it.
“And what do you say, Livy?” he asked, in that husky drawl that had always wreaked havoc with her resistance. “Are you still mad at me for wearing blue?”
No. Livy wanted to say. Oh, no. Cal. I’ve had thousands of hours to regret not telling you to do what you had to do, then return to me safely. She heard the unspoken question in the tone of his voice, saw in his face his desire to recapture what they once had. She had but to say the right words and he would reach out and they would begin to bridge the enormous gap between them.
“Cal,” Livy began, “it was a long time ago. Years. A lot has happened,” she said, and was about to ask if he still wanted to be her friend in spite of what was being said about her when his eye fell on what lay behind her.
She saw when he grasped the fact that she was standing in front of a grave, then noticed his gaze narrow and realized he must have glimpsed the roses.
“Your husband?” he asked, staring at her. “They buried Daniel Gillespie here?”
“No, it’s not Dan,” she said. “Dan’s buried in the cemetery next to the church, at the other end of town. No, that’s…it’s Francisco Luna.” She saw his confusion. “He’s—he’s the one Dan killed…before he killed himself.”
The puzzled expression was transformed into one of understanding, and then he frowned. “Livy, you had him buried here? You put flowers on his grave? Then— then it’s true, isn’t it?”
She saw him take an involuntary step back, even as her brain screamed with disappointment. Then it’s true he was your lover—that’s what Cal meant. And then her disappointment changed to anger, anger that he was just like everyone else in Gillespie Springs who had judged her based on what was said, without giving her a chance to defend herself.
He added, “But…was that wise? After what happened?”
Livy saw his gaze shift to her belly, and knew that he’d seen the slight thickening there. She crossed her arms protectively over her abdomen in that age-old, unconscious gesture of a pregnant woman, feeling the anger rise and surround her like flames.
“You think what you want to think, Caleb Devlin, it doesn’t make any difference to me. And yes, I am still angry at you, you—you traitor! One of my brothers was killed, and the other one never bothered to come home. My husband came back a broken, bitter shell of a man. Daddy died of a broken heart when we couldn’t pay the taxes on the plantation. And you think I shouldn’t be angry at you? And what business is it of yours if I gave six feet of earth in my own yard to Francisco Luna?”
She watched as a muscle worked in Cal’s jaw. “Livy, I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s none of my business. I was just—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she told him. “I’d have thought after your beating you’d have a little compassion for other outcasts, but as that doesn’t appear to be the case, you can just get out of here!”
“Livy, please—”
“No! Get out!
But he just stood there, and with a little cry, she ran for the house, slamming the door. She headed for the stairs, intending to run up to the sanctuary of her room, where she could give in to the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, safe from his probing gaze.
She had reached the second-to-last step when she slipped.
Even outside, he heard her scream, and with the scream, the curious paralysis that had made him stand there while she denounced him vanished. In a few short strides he’d reached the door and wrenched it open. Thank God she hadn’t taken time to lock it.
“Olivia?” he called, striding into the kitchen. “Where are you?” And then he almost stepped on her, lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs that led up from the kitchen.
“Olivia?”
She lay on her side, her knees drawn up against her abdomen, her skirts twisted around her ankles. Her eyes were closed, her face pasty white, like a poorly bleached muslin sheet. Moisture beaded her upper lip.
Her eyelids fluttered at the sound of his voice, then opened. She blinked once, twice, as if trying to focus.
“Olivia, it’s me, Cal,” he said, kneeling at her side. “What’s happened to you? Did you fall?”
Her