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She wasn't a weak woman, but her strength was all but sapped. She did the best she could, her limp arms draping over his shoulders.
"You have to hold tight, Isabel! I can't pull myself out if I've got to hold you, too."
She barely nodded, seeing for the first time that he'd fastened a rope around his middle that reached the other side of the creek and was anchored to the limb of an oak.
In what seemed like forever, John made the slow journey with her out of the sand and onto the banks, where he went to his knees to help her get her bearings. She could hardly move other than to tighten her grasp around his neck and cling to him as if she'd never let him go.
"You saved me," she murmured against his ear. "You could have left me and had everything for yourself… but you saved me."
"Isabel." Her name grated from his throat in a pained whisper. "I would never have left you. Isabel… I couldn't. I… care too much. Everything wouldn't be anything to me… without you."
To her embarrassment, she began crying—softly, gently, against his strong shoulder.
They were wet and muddy and had nearly been pulled into the sand. But she couldn't think about that. The words swirling in her head weren't only the ones of gratitude and affection. There was a silent declaration she was too afraid to speak.
I love you, John.
John Wolcott had fallen in love for the first time in his life.
He loved Isabel.
Standing at the railing of the Pierpont Inn and g
azing out at the ocean, John got used to the idea. Not that he needed to—he'd been in love with her for days, but he hadn't recognized how strongly until he'd nearly lost her.
What would she say if he told her?
It seemed too soon, too sudden. But sometimes a man just knew. She was the woman for him, the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Hell, he'd been waiting for her all his life. And because of a contest… he'd found her.
Waves crashed beneath the deck, lapping against the pilings and creating a serenade that was to John's hieing. The waning sun bronzed the white of his shirt. He'd bought himself and Isabel new clothes. His shirt had embroidery on the cuffs with full, billowing sleeves and an open neck where lacings lay undone. Hie pants were snow white as well, making him feel somewhat uncomfortable—too pristine. But it was the best he could do. The boardwalk vendor's price was right, not to mention that he was the only one around selling clothes.
Isabel was in one of the rooms cleaning up and changing. He'd paid for an hour's use with a bath and an attendant to help Isabel if she needed it. They'd had to come to the hotel on one horse. That mare he'd rented for her had taken off when she'd let go of the reins. No doubt the piebald was back to Limonero by now—with its panniers empty of berries. At least they hadn't picked any yet for somebody else to make off with when they caught the horse.
John had thought of booking the room for the night and staying in Ventura. But he hadn't wanted Isabel to feel trapped with him—he'd sensed she'd felt that way in the tent. He wasn't easily goaded into an argument. He didn't like them; he'd watched his parents have too many.
Tonight would be different, though. They weren't mad at each other. In fact, he felt as if they were closer now than they'd ever been. They could travel at night. He'd bought a set of blankets and a small lantern. Picking berries in near-dark wasn't a picnic. It could be done, though, if necessary. He was willing if that's what Isabel wanted.
Turning and resting his elbows on the railing, John looked through the magenta bougainvillea-covered arch that led to the hotel's rooms, to catch a glimpse of Isabel. He stood in the courtyard, where a single table and two chairs had been set up at his request. All around, palm tree fronds whispered in the breeze. Bird-of-paradise surrounded a softly trickling fountain. A gull cried overhead. Hibiscus flowers were in bloom in every color.
A slip of white caught his eye, and he turned.
Isabel walked toward him wearing her black hair in a high twist with many braids forming a loose effect at the top of her head. Pink flowers had been pinned in various places, adding a sweet softness he longed to breathe in. The three-tiered skirt and white blouse he'd picked out for her hadn't looked nearly as good on the vendor's table as they did on her.
The skirt had a wispy fullness to it and came only to her ankles. On her feet she wore Mexican sandals. The colorful embroidery on her blouse made a marbled splash at her bare throat and the crook of her arms. The ivory skin on the column and slope of her neck seemed almost golden in the sunset. A lacy shawl of fine white wool draped about her shoulders.
She was a vision…
John left the railing and went to her to take her hands. She let him. "Isabel, I don't know what to say. 'Beautiful' isn't enough."
Shyly, she looked down, then at him. "Lupe told me this skirt isn't too short, and the blouse is worn off the shoulders, but I feel… undressed," she confessed; then she added, "All over. If it wasn't for the shawl, I wouldn't have come out."
"Shawl or no"—he brought his fingers beneath her chin and lightly brushed his lips over hers, as if it were natural to do so—"you're exquisite."
Her cheeks pinkened. "Look at you… all dressed up."
"Yeah." He shrugged, uncertain she really liked how he looked and wanting to impress her.
"You look handsome."
