“Call me Rafe. My mom says it sounds more American, but if they cared so much about being American, they should have named me George. Or Lincoln.” He sighed. “It sure is nice to say these things out loud, for once. You’re a good listener, Els.”

“Thank you . . . Rafe.”

He rolled onto his side. She felt his gaze on her face and tried to keep breathing evenly.

“Can I kiss you, Elsa?”

She could barely nod.

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. His lips softened against her skin; at the touch, she felt herself come alive.

He trailed kisses along her throat, and it made her want to touch him, but she didn’t dare. Good women almost certainly didn’t do such things.

“Can I . . . do more, Elsa?”

“You mean . . .”

“Love you?”

Elsa had dreamed of a moment like this, prayed for it, sculpted it out of scraps from the books she’d read, but now it was here. Real. A man was asking to love her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

He drew back, fumbled with his belt, undid it, pulled it free, and threw it. The buckle clacked against the side of the truck as he pulled off his pants.

He pushed up her red silk dress; it slid up her body, tickling, arousing her. She saw her bare legs in the moonlight as he pulled down her bloomers. Warm night air touched her, made her shiver. She held her legs together until he eased them apart and climbed on top of her.

Sweet God.

She closed her eyes and he thrust himself inside of her. It hurt so badly she cried out.

Elsa clamped her mouth shut to stay silent.

He groaned and shuddered and went limp on top of her. She felt his heavy breath in the crook of her neck.

He rolled off her but remained close. “Wowza,” he said.

It sounded as if there were a smile in his voice, but how could that be? She must have done something wrong. That couldn’t be . . . it.

“You’re something special, Elsa,” he said.

“It was . . . good?” she dared to ask.

“It was great,” he said.

She wanted to roll onto her side and study his face. Kiss him. These stars she’d seen a million times. He was something new, and he’d wanted her. The effect of that was a staggering upheaval to her world. An opportunity she’d never really imagined. Can I love you? he’d asked. Maybe they would fall asleep together and—

“Well, I reckon I’d best get you home, Els. My dad will tan my hide if I’m not on the tractor at dawn. We’re plowing up another hundred and twenty acres tomorrow to plant more wheat.”

“Oh,” she said. “Right. Of course.”

ELSA CLOSED THE TRUCK door and stared through the open window at Rafe, who smiled, slowly raised his hand, and then drove away.

What kind of goodbye was it? Would he want to see her again?

Look at him. Of course not.

Besides, he lived in Lonesome Tree. That was thirty miles away. And if she did happen to see him in Dalhart, it wouldn’t matter.

He was Italian. Catholic. Young. Nothing about him was acceptable to her family.

She opened the gate and entered her mother’s fragrant world. From now on, blooming night jasmine would always make Elsa think of him . . .

At the house, she opened the front door and stepped into the shadowy parlor.

As she closed the door, she heard a creaking sound and she stopped. Moonlight bled through the window. She saw her father standing by the Victrola.

“Who are you?” he said, coming toward her.

Elsa’s beaded silver headband slipped down; she pushed it back up. “Y-your daughter.”

“Damn right. My father fought to make Texas a part of the United States. He joined the Rangers and fought in Laredo and was shot and nearly died. Our blood is in this ground.”

“Y-yes. I know, but—”

Elsa didn’t see his hand come up until it was too close to duck. He cracked her across the jaw so hard she lost her balance and fell to the floor.

She scrambled back into the corner to get away. “Papa—”

“You shame us. Get out of my sight.”

Elsa lurched to her feet, ran up the stairs, and slammed her bedroom door shut.

With shaking hands, she lit the lamp by her bed and undressed.

There was a red mark above her breast. (Had Rafe done that?) A bruise was already discoloring her jaw, and her hair was a mess from lovemaking, if that was what it could be called.

Even so, she would do it again if she could. She would let her father hit her, yell at her, slander her, or disinherit her.

She knew now what she hadn’t known before, hadn’t even suspected: she would do anything, suffer anything, to be loved, even if it was just for a night.

THE NEXT MORNING, ELSA woke to sunlight streaming through the open window. The red dress hung over the closet door. The ache in her jaw reminded her of last night, as did the pain that lingered after Rafe’s loving. One she wanted to forget; one she wanted to remember.

Her iron bed was piled with quilts she had made, often sewing by candlelight during the cold winter months. At the foot of her bed stood her hope chest, lovingly filled with embroidered linens and a fine white lawn nightdress and the wedding quilt Elsa had begun when she was twelve years old, before her unattractiveness had been revealed to be not a phase but a permanence. By the time Elsa started her monthlies, Mama had quietly stopped talking about Elsa’s wedding and stopped beading scraps of Alen?on lace. Enough for half a dress lay folded between pieces of tissue.