Santa Fe Fortune & How to Marry a Matador

she’d once believed had suited her so well. No one in her life who’d loved her had ever stayed. And now here was someone who adored her, and she was running away. She didn’t know why Fernando had become so taken with her, but she now trusted in his sincerity when he said he had. Why else would he be willing to let her go, unless that was what he believed she needed for her own happiness?
    Jess let the tears quietly fall as she recalled tumbling meadows and the innocence of childhood. There’d been a time when she’d believed in the beauty in this world and had trusted in those who protected her not to hurt her. Jess honestly wasn’t prone to illness and barely ever missed a day at work. However, there’d been one time when she was fifteen that she hadn’t been able to get out of bed for two weeks.
    “Do you know what he said to me?” Jess said softly.
    “Who?” Fernando asked.
    “My father, when he left.”
    “No, what did he say?”
    “He said…” She caught her breath but kept crying, the tears pouring harder. “He said, ‘It’s good you’ve learned love’s an illusion now. It will save you lots of heartache in the future . ’”
    “Oh, Jessica. My dear Jessica… Your father was wrong, so very wrong to say that.”
    Her voice was a whimper now, her shoulders lightly rocking with her sobs. “He left me and my mom and never looked back. Not one card. Not one phone call. I don’t even know where he went.”
    Fernando tightened his grip around her, desperately longing to keep her safe. Defended from her past and protected from an uncertain future. He’d provide a future with anything she wanted, if only she could give him her heart.
    “Some men are like that,” he said with a bitter edge to his voice. “And I’m sorry. Sorry on behalf of all of them. But Jessica,” he said, hugging her to him. “You’ve got to believe that not all of us are.”
    “I know,” she said between sobs.
    Fernando held her firmly, not knowing what else he could say or do. And then, after a bit, the crying lessened, and it seemed she was drifting off to sleep.
    “Can we just stay here awhile?” she asked, beginning to doze.
    “For as long as you’d like,” he said, holding her close.

    Ana María entered the kitchen as Fernando was grilling a pan tostado .
    “Making your own breakfast?” Ana María asked with surprise. “Consuelo will be down any minute.”
    “I didn’t want to trouble Consuelo,” Fernando answered, putting the kettle to boil.
    “What’s going on?” his mother asked suspiciously.
    “Jessica’s not feeling well.”
    “Oh dear!” she said with alarm. And then with a knowing nod, she added, “Ah, the morning sickness. It’s begun already.”
    “Isn’t it early?” Fernando asked.
    “Depends on the woman, as well as the pregnancy,” Ana María stated with authority. “With Margarita, I didn’t feel it for months. With you, however, I was sick right away. I chalked it up to conflicting hormones.”
    Fernando felt a flash of pride at the thought of fathering a boy. Though a little girl would be nice too. He stopped himself, realizing he was fantasizing about a pregnancy that didn’t exist. “Mamá, about the baby… I don’t think we should get too carried away or excited.”
    “Posh! Babies are always exciting. Such joys. Just you wait and see, Fernando, when you hold your own child in your arms.”
    He had to admit the thought of having a baby had its appeal, particularly with one beautiful blonde as the mother. She’d look just like the Madonna, with her halo of golden hair. He’d never suspected she was so religious until he’d caught her reading the Bible.
    “Fernando, your toast is burning,” she warned as smoke curled from the oven.
    He hastily withdrew the tray, seeing from its charred contents he’d have to start over.
    “Perhaps you should let Consuelo bring it up after all?” his mother suggested.
    “Maybe you’re right,” he answered, thinking he’d been away from his Madonna too long. What if she awakened and missed having him there?
    “I wonder if he’ll have blue eyes,” Ana María said. “Or green, like yours?”
    “Who?”
    “Your son, of course.”
    “Mother,” he said seriously. “I need to talk to you about the baby—and the marriage too.”
    Her cheeks sagged with concern. “What’s happened, Fernando?”
    “It’s maybe what hasn’t,” he said, hanging his head.
    Ana María righted his chin in her hands. “I’m