Yellow Rose Bride. Lori Copeland

sing “Gladly, the Cross-eyed Bear.”

      Vonnie had refused to look at him as the congregation dutifully turned to page thirty-six in their hymnals and sang “Gladly, The Cross I Bear.”

      Adolescence evolved into mid teens. Young, lithe bodies filled out. His narrow shoulders broadened, legs lengthened, muscles grew hard, and the peach fuzz on his jaw became a real beard that confronted him daily. Her oval face matured into a puzzle of tilted violet eyes, pert nose and narrow chin. Her quick, thin body softened and rounded. The silent interest between the oldest Baldwin boy and the Taylor girl flourished.

      By his seventeenth birthday he’d developed a full-blown case of puppy love for her. That was the summer they’d started sneaking away to Liken’s Pond. Things were starting to get out of hand. They both knew they were courting danger, but that made their secret meetings even more fascinating.

      The pond, one of the few that survived the hot summers, was tucked behind scraggly creosote bushes that lined the bank. A few yards out, yuccas pointed white flowers toward the clear blue sky, their green spiny leaves contrasting with the sandy soil. Piñon and cypress trees crept close to shade the banks after noon. Juniper trees mingled with mesquite bush. But where Adam and Vonnie sought privacy, the sycamore shaded them in the summer, and floated its leaves like boats on the water in the fall. It was a special place, a place of wonder.

      It was Saturday. Chores were done. A shimmering sun beat down on the scorched earth. The fragrance of grass baking in the heat-saturated air.

      The pond was a good two miles from George Liken’s house. Only an occasional, wandering Hereford intruded upon their privacy.

      Treading water, they faced each other, arms looped over shoulders, savoring the stolen moments. If P.K. or Teague ever got wind of the secret meetings, their budding relationship would stop.

      “What did you tell your father?”

      “Told him I’d be with Tate Morgan shoeing a horse. He’ll say I was if anyone asks. What about you?”

      “Doing needlepoint with the new neighbor, Nettie Donaldson. I asked God for forgiveness.”

      Even now, years later, Adam could smell the sweetness of her skin, still see the silken curtain of her hair floating in the water—

      “Am I interrupting, son?”

      Adam brought the chair legs to the floor with a thump, sat up straight and forced himself to focus on his father, who stood framed in the doorway. Still a commanding figure, at fifty-two, his snow-white hair was the only external evidence that time was passing. But Adam knew his father’s health had not been good of late.

      “No, come in, Dad.” P.K. entered the study, carrying a foul-looking herbal tonic. He caught Adam’s glance at the glass and shrugged. “Rain has my knee acting up.”

      Sinking into the oversize leather wingback chair, he stretched his legs out in front of him, balancing the glass on his thigh.

      “Nice party last night.”

      Laying a stack of papers aside, Adam reached for the grain report he’d been reading earlier.

      “Yes, Alma knows how to throw a party.”

      “Mmm-hmm,” P.K. mused. “Don’t know what we’d do without Alma. Fine woman. Beth have a good time?”

      “Seemed to.”

      “Now there’s a woman you can be proud of, son. Beth’s an excellent choice for a wife. Comes from good stock. None finer than Leighton and Gillian Baylor. You’ll be starting a family right away?”

      Adam shook his head, negative.

      “Have you discussed kids?” P.K. asked. “You’re not getting any younger.”

      Adam focused on the grain report. “What’s age got to do with it? I know many a man that’s fathered a child late in life.”

      “Oh, I don’t know. Two young people in love—I’d have thought the subject might have come up. Thought maybe new ways had changed the idea of not discussing it until after the marriage, but apparently it hasn’t.” P.K. sipped his tonic. “You want children, don’t you? None of us is getting any younger, you know—”

      “Actually, Dad, I haven’t thought about it.” Children were the last thing on his mind. He had to get through the wedding first.

      “I wouldn’t put it off too long,” P.K. said. “Time passes quickly.”

      “I know, Dad. You want grandchildren.”

      “I do, and I’m not apologizing for it. Should have a houseful by now.”

      Adam quieted his irritation. What was this talk of love and grandkids? P.K. Baldwin didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body. He tossed the grain report onto the desk. “I guess we’re pretending this isn’t an arranged marriage. If Beth didn’t bring a dowry of five hundred acres of prime land you wouldn’t be so eager to have her become a Baldwin.”

      P.K. lifted his glass, staring at the murky liquid. “That’s a little cold, isn’t it?”

      “But true.” Adam’s tone hardened. “The town’s abuzz with the Baylors’ daughter marrying into the family.”

      “She’ll make you a good wife.”

      “And the Baylors’ land doesn’t hurt a thing. That right?” P.K.’s features remained as bland as Alma’s bread pudding. “Son. It’s only land, and we have all we need. I’m thinking of your future happiness.”

      Alma bustled in, bearing a tray with cups and a silver pot of fresh coffee. The Hispanic woman was more than a housekeeper—she was a vital part of the Baldwin family. She had single-handedly raised Andrew, Pat and Joey after Ceilia Baldwin’s death when Adam was ten.

      “I thought you gentlemen might enjoy coffee.”

      “None for me, thanks,” P.K. said as Alma set the tray on the corner of the desk.

      “Then you would like one of the nice cinnamon rolls I just took out of the oven, sí?”

      Adam smiled. “Just coffee, Alma.”

      She bent to pat his lean cheek. “You should eat. You will need all your strength to make many niños for your father, no?” Picking up the silver pot, she smiled at P.K. “Señor Baldwin?”

      P.K. toasted her with his glass. “I’m drinking my pain tonic.”

      She sent a cautious look at him before shuffling out on slippered feet.

      When the door closed behind her, P.K. pushed himself up and stepped to the window. Tugging the curtain aside, he focused on the rain rolling off the roof of the hacienda and splashing onto the rock veranda.

      Adam bent over another report, but he didn’t see it. He heard the rain drumming on the roof, but his mind had returned to that hot summer day seven years earlier.

      “Adam, this is crazy!” Vonnie giggled as they raced through the small grove of trees, hand in hand. The orange sky was in the midst of another spectacular sunset.

      Flinging his arms wide, Adam let out a joyous whoop, causing her to break into laughter. She tried to clamp her hand over his mouth, but their feet tangled and they toppled to the ground, laughing. Between short, raspy breaths, they hugged each other so tightly he thought their ribs would crack.

      He could hardly believe it! He’d convinced Vonnie to marry him!

      Sitting up, he looked deeply into her eyes. “I love you, Vonnie Taylor.”

      He could see in her eyes that she believed him, to the very depths of her soul.

      “You know we’re going to be in trouble when they find out.”

      “Trouble” wouldn’t cover it. His father would horse-whip him. “They can tie me to the stake and burn me alive,” he vowed.