Free The Teacher's Mail Order Bride by Cindy Caldwell Page B

already?” he asked as he pulled his hands away. He quickly crossed the room toward the back door, looking away from Rose.
    Rose shook her head as she picked up the bag and followed. “No, I’m not. I don’t quite know what’s come over me.”
    Mr. Tate opened the door for her and she stepped outside into the crisp autumn day, breathing in the scent of sage from beyond the shade tree. There weren’t many trees in Tombstone—some people were having cuttings of their favorite plants sent from abroad as the town grew. She had always been partial to this particular tree and sighed as she sat down on the bench.
    Mr. Tate followed her gaze up into its canopy and reached out to catch a fiery red leaf as it fell to the ground. “I love fall,” he said as he handed her the leaf.
    The lightness of the leaf on her hand surprised her, as it always did. She held it up to the sun, admiring the veins that ran through it and the vivid color. She sighed and noticed Mr. Tate staring at her, his deep brown eyes watching her intently as she studied the leaf.
    She looked down quickly. She dropped the leaf and her cheeks flushed as she reached for the bag Maria had prepared. Handing him a tamale in a linen napkin, she spread another napkin on her lap and started to loosen the strip of cornhusk tied around it.
    “Ah, Maria remembered that I loved this—tamale, was it? Delicious,” he said as he sat on the bench and began to unwrap his as well.
    Rose laughed as she reached into the bag and handed him an empanada. “She sent this for you also.”
    Mr. Tate’s eyebrows rose as he accepted the pastry and held it to his nose. “Ah, apple. That was very thoughtful of you. I mean, of her.”
    “Maria’s very proud of her cooking. A few compliments will get you fed for life,” Rose chuckled before she took a bite of her tamale, the shredded beef as tender as the cornmeal. “After last night, I think you’re already in that category.”
    “Please thank her for me, if you don’t mind. In a very short period of time, I’ve become quite fond of Mexican food. My mother would be shocked.”
    “Shocked? Why? There is no Mexican food in Boston?” Rose asked.
    He took the last corn husk from the tamale and bit into it, his eyes closed as he chewed. “Not that I was aware of, but I stayed mostly in my own neighborhood.”
    “Your own neighborhood?” Rose wasn’t familiar with Boston and her curiosity got the better of her.
    He looked toward the horizon, past the shade tree and onto the rolling hills scattered with cactus. “There is much about Tombstone that is different from where I grew up. The food, included.”
    A sidelong glance at Mr. Tate told her that he was lost in reverie and she sensed it might be a delicate topic. So she did as her mother had always done in an awkward moment—changed the subject to food.
    “What was your favorite food, then? What did you grow up eating?” She took the last bite of her tamale and wiped her hands on her napkin.
    “Ah, that’s easy. Lasagne, spaghetti, gnocchi, zuppa.” His white teeth flashed with the last word, which Rose assumed mean soup. She’d heard of—and even tasted—the other things he’d mentioned and loved them.
    “Oh, you’re Italian!” She clapped her hands together, her smile wide. He must have been to Italy. How exciting!
    “One hundred percent. Well, both of my parents came over to Boston from Italy. So I suppose I’m a hundred percent American, as I was born here.” His eyes clouded.
    “Mr. Tate, I—”
    “Please, call me Michael,” he interrupted. “All of my friends and family do. I think it would make me miss them less.” With his eager smile as he bit into the empanada, she couldn’t refuse, although the thought of doing so in public made her a little uncomfortable.
    “Very well...Michael.” Encouraged by his smile and nod, she said, “And please, you must call me Rose.”
    He turned toward her, his head cocked to one side as he regarded her with