Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  And part of her was used to mooning over Lance and never expecting to have him. Now, with the prospect of marrying him, she realized that part of her was happier with the fantasies in her head than the reality of actually having him. There was a certain security in living a fantasy life. And she’d been married long enough to know that real men made a lot of demands. If a woman stayed with one long enough he would step blindly and uncaringly on every sacred cow she might harbor. And she knew Lance and Chane well enough to know they were basically no different from other men. They expected the world to adjust to their needs and wants. She had grown accustomed to the freedom of her life. She now expected the world to adjust to her needs.

  Tristera walked into the room and looked wistfully at the letter in Samantha’s hand. “I always wanted to get a letter. In all the years I was at away school, I never did.”

  “Would you read this?” Samantha offered the letter to her. Tristera looked surprised, then read it.

  “What do you think? He used the word love. He’s never done that before.”

  Tristera shrugged. “It’s not notarized.”

  Samantha laughed. Tristera occasionally used words and phrases that surprised Samantha. “But don’t you see this as hopeful? He’s never used the word love before.”

  “I know not. The only experience I had with soft words uttered by a man was a bad one.”

  “Putting that one aside, can’t you see how hopeful this looks? He’s getting a divorce now, and he’s using the word love.”

  Tristera paused, shrugged, said, “He’s a handsome man. He has money and position. But he doesn’t love you the way Señor Steve does.”

  “Steve has never said that he loves me.”

  “Some men don’t use words lightly. That is the Indian way.” She handed back the letter. “And some men do. I’ll go see if Nicholas has finished reading his assignment.”

  Steve walked around the house to check the rawhide strips they’d laid out two days ago. Nicholas was hunkered down with his back against a tree, watching the strips drying in the sun. That seemed pitiful to Steve. Either the boy was visiting his steer or waiting for his reata. Steve wasn’t sure the boy knew which.

  “What happened to Young Hawk?”

  “He has to work. His ma wanted him to gather wood for the fire. His pa left him in charge.” Nicholas sneered, but Steve heard the longing in that complaint. Nicholas would give a lot to have a pa ordering him around.

  Steve checked the taut leather of Dakota’s hide.

  “Seems dry enough to me.”

  Nicholas grinned and jumped up. “What do we do now?”

  “You’re lucky it was my left arm that got shot and not my cutting arm. Watch close.” Steve slipped his razor-sharp shaving knife from the hiding place in his boot and cut a hole in the center of the hide.

  “The trick is not to cut it too wide or too narrow.” Starting from the hole, Steve cut a strip around the hole, spiraling outward until he had cut one continuous strip sixty feet long. He’d lost enough blood to have to stop a couple of times to rest. Nicholas watched in awed silence.

  “All right, young man, fetch me a bucket of water.”

  At the order, Nicholas’s face reflected something akin to ecstasy. In minutes Nicholas came back with a bucket full of water thudding against his wet pants. Steve pushed the strip into the water, which spilled over the sides and soaked into the dirt.

  “Now what?”

  “When they get soft, we’ll stretch ’em.”

  An hour later, with Nicholas on his heels, Steve walked back to check on the leather strip, which felt soft enough to work with. “Now I’m going to need your help.”

  Carrying the strip, they walked up the mountain until Steve found two trees the right distance apart. He tied one end of the strip to a strong, low limb of the tree. Then he gave the other end to Nicholas. Steve pulled a limb down and held it while Nicholas tied the other end to the limb. When he let it go, the limb snapped back into place, pulling the leather taut.

  “How long do we have to wait?”

  Steve eyed the sun, which got pretty warm in the afternoon. “Not long, I’d say. A couple of hours or so.”

  Two hours to the minute, Steve looked up from the newspaper he was reading on the porch and saw Nicholas coming for him. Together they walked up the slope and found the strips stretched out tight and dry. Steve realized they were rushing this reata, but apparently the boy needed it.

  Steve untied the end on the low limb and pulled the other limb down low enough for Nicholas to untie the reata from it. They walked down to the corral, dragging the stiff strips of rawhide behind them.

  Steve showed Nicholas how to scrape the hair off the hide with a sharp knife. “Keep the blade turned slightly, so you’re not cutting, just scraping. If you cut it, you’ll have the shortest reata on the place.”

  Nicholas worked slowly, painstakingly. They spent an hour scraping. The boy worked with silent determination.

  When they had stripped it clean, Steve separated out three long strips, found the middle, and tied it tight around a corral post.

  “How come you tied it in the middle?” Nicholas asked, frowning as if Steve meant to cheat him out of half his reata.

  “’Cause it’s too long to braid otherwise. It’d take forever to get anything done. You ever tried to untangle thirty feet of rawhide everytime you do one braid? Fifteen feet is going to be bad enough. Fetch us another bucket of water.”

  Nicholas got the water. Steve wet the strips again, worked the first few braids, and passed the strips to Nicholas. “Braid and pull. Braid and pull. You have to keep it tight and wet. Think you can do that?”

  Nicholas braided for a few minutes in silence. “Why do I have to keep it wet and pull it so tight? It hurts my hands.”

  “You want it smooth, don’t you? You wouldn’t want a lumpy reata. There’s no rush. You can work on this for a week, a month, however long it takes.”

  Nicholas braided and Steve watched, correcting him when he let the strips get too loose or when he forgot to wet them.

  “Nicholas!” Samantha called, peering into the dim recesses of the parlor. She didn’t find him downstairs, so she checked upstairs, then went back to the kitchen a second time.

  Juana stepped inside from the back door, carrying a pan of green beans from the garden.

  “Have you seen Nicholas? I thought he’d be taking his nap.”

  “Maybe he’s with Señor Steve.”

  “Where?”

  “Up on the mountain I think.”

  “What would Nicholas and Steve go up on the mountain for?” Samantha tried to contain her growing alarm, but her mind flashed her the message in the note. He’ll kill your son and break your heart. She realized that maybe Steve had lied to her about the note and his innocence. “Why would he take Nicholas up there?” she repeated, her voice rising.

  Juana frowned. “Why do mens do anything?”

  Samantha bit back her reply, picked up the skirt of her gown, and ran out the back door toward the mountain.

  Steve looked up from watching Nicholas with his braiding to see Samantha Forrester running toward them. Steve walked forward to meet her. She stopped a few feet from him and peered around him at her son, who was concentrating on the task before him. In a pale yellow cotton gown, her damp skin gleamed silvery against her soft golden hair. Her cheeks were bright pink. Steve felt her prettiness down the entire length of his body.

  “What’re you doing, Nicholas?” she asked.

  Engrossed, the boy didn’t answer, so Steve answered for him. “Making a reata. Doing a first-rate job of it, too.”

  Samantha brushed a shaking hand across her eyes. “Where did he get the leather?”

  “From Dakota,” Nicholas said proudly.

  Samantha blinked. The thought of her son making a reata from his dead pet revolted her. It seemed uncalled for. And diabolical…

  “Nicholas, it’s time to come in,” she said sharply.


  Steve couldn’t believe she would call a halt so abruptly to something the boy was so absorbed in. But her mouth was tight with disapproval and her tone indicated she would brook no opposition. Steve realized that either he or Nicholas must have said or done something wrong, but he couldn’t think what it might be.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked grimly.

  Nicholas looked up at his mother in dismay. “But, Mama, I want to finish this.”

  “I have something else for you to do.”

  “Mama, this is important!”

  “Nicholas, do as I say!” Her voice shocked her, it was so strident. She lowered it. “Run along now. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Nicholas flashed a pleading look at Steve.

  “You heard your mother.”

  Reluctantly Nicholas let go of the leather strips and turned toward the house.

  Samantha watched her son drag his feet into the house and slam the back door. Then she faced Steve. “I know you mean well, but I do not want Nicholas playing with his dead pet.”

  That was an odd way to put it, Steve thought. But he ignored it to make his own point. “Before we started the reata, he was grieving about the loss of his steer. Since then, he’s been fine.”

  “I’m his mother, and I know what’s best for him. I know you don’t understand, but I hope you will at least honor my request.” Samantha pulled at the strips around the tree and tried to free them, but her hands were shaking so hard she couldn’t.

  “I’ll do that,” he said, moving her aside.

  “Thank you.”

  Steve untied the reata. Samantha took it from him, wadded up the strips, and strode angrily toward the house, leather strings dragging behind her.

  “Am I fired, or should I just quit?” he called after her.

  Samantha stopped. “No,” she said, turning toward him.

  “Well then what the hell does it mean?”

  Samantha sighed. “It means—it means…that I don’t want Nicholas playing with any part of his dead steer.”

  “Bull,” he growled. “At least have the courage to say what’s on your mind.”

  “I did,” she said firmly, and turned and ran toward the house.

  Confusion turned to anger in Steve. He stalked to the barn, saddled Calico, and galloped toward the work site. It was that or head for Waco.

  Chapter Eleven

  From the upstairs window, Samantha watched Steve ride away. Her chest felt cold and hollow, but she refused to stop him. Her son was more important to her than any man.

  She found Nicholas at his window, crying. He, too, had probably witnessed Steve’s leaving. She reached out a hand to comfort him, but he pushed it away. “I want my reata.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I said so.” It was an inadequate excuse and Nicholas knew it. He was used to more logical reasons from her, but she couldn’t articulate her sudden fears for his safety. She tried again to touch him, but he stepped out of reach and then threw himself on the bed, crying as if his heart were broken. He seemed more upset about losing the reata than he had been about Dakota’s death. Samantha suddenly wanted to strangle Steve Sheridan.

  She tried to ignore Nicholas’s crying. It was difficult because emotional upsets were usually followed by higher fevers. But this time she couldn’t give in. Better he should cry for a few minutes than have a living reminder of a dead pet forever.

  That evening, she slipped outside and sat in the dark on the front porch. Stars flickered overhead. A few night-singing birds trilled their short songs. It was a good night for sitting on the porch swing with a man. The evening was beautiful but useless. Steve was furious with her. She probably wouldn’t see him again until the house was finished. Lance might never be back. He may have made up with Angie by now or found someone else who knew how to respond to him and when. Frustrated with herself, she stood up and walked inside.

  Tristera sat in the parlor reading a book. Samantha had been surprised to find that the girl was as polite and deferential as any white girl raised in a strict boarding school. She would do any task assigned to her—read to Nicholas, wash dishes, cook, or clean. In her spare time, she read.

  “Is Nicholas asleep?” Samantha asked.

  “Sí. After six stories.”

  “You read him six stories?”

  Tristera laughed. “Well, I wanted to read them anyway. They were good.”

  Tristera was a paradox—one moment she was a child playing in the sand with Nicholas, making pretend houses and roads, and the next she was a young woman struggling to cope with her attraction for Captain Rathwick. Samantha felt closer to Tristera than she had to any woman since Mrs. Lillian.

  In her bedroom, Samantha slipped into her gown and climbed into her cold bed. She wished she didn’t care so much what Steve thought, but she did. Loving Lance as she did, she shouldn’t even be affected by Steve Sheridan. It took a long time to get to sleep.

  The following morning, Samantha had a sudden urge to ride up the mountain and apologize to Steve. But she realized she’d just look like a fool. He was the one who had interfered. But, of course, he’d meant well.

  She fretted over this all day. And it was the last thing she thought about before falling asleep that night.

  Tristera knew the señora was suffering, but she had her own problems. In her anger and unhappiness about Tuvi’s death, she had vowed never to meditate again, but at night, the sounds came, and the light. She tried not to listen to the sounds or look at the light, but she lay there half the night at the mercy of her soul, which seemed to need it. Still, she refused to say the holy words. She would not give in.

  Tuvi had told her that the ability to meditate was a gift from the Great Mystery. His grace alone made it possible. Now, even though she no longer wanted His grace, because she didn’t want anything to do with a god who couldn’t even protect Tuvi from the soldiers, she had it.

  Thinking rude thoughts about the Great Mystery frightened her, but she would not relent.

  The next day she worked harder.

  The señora walked into the yard and caught her beating the rugs on the clothesline.

  “I think Juana is working you too hard, Tristera.”

  “Juana didn’t tell me to do this,” she said, afraid the señora would say something to Juana.

  “She didn’t?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then why?”

  “I felt like it. Rugs can always use cleaning.”

  The señora walked back to her work area, shaking her head.

  The following morning a locomotive chuffed noisily up to the house. She had planned to sell the cattle, and she still thought it was the right thing to do, but the necessity of it rankled her. Selling off her cattle signaled a major setback in her hopes of building a burgeoning cattle empire. The taste of that defeat was sharp in her mouth as she walked forward to meet the train.

  The engineer, sweat beaded on his high forehead, jumped down and walked over to meet her.

  “Morning, ma’am. These are from Mr. Kincaid.”

  He handed her two envelopes. She thanked him, and he shuffled away a respectful distance and stood in the shade of his locomotive, waiting for her response.

  One was a letter from Lance. She tore it open and read.

  Dear Sam,

  I have found a buyer for a hundred head of your breeding stock at a hundred dollars a head, and four hundred head of range stock at twelve dollars a head. It is a little lower than I’d hoped, but I think you should take it. He is eager to get his hands on some more of your breed stock, but I told him only if he pays more for the next herd.

  If you agree to the sale, load and ship the five hundred head as soon as possible. Also, I’ve made arrangements with the owner of a feed lot in Phoenix, so you can ship your entire herd here for safekeeping until we are able to find buyers for them.

  If my calculations are correct, your men can load five hundred head for shipment by Sunday, t
he rest over the next few weeks. Unless I hear differently, I will expect you Sunday afternoon in Phoenix. We’ll seal the deal and then celebrate.

  Love,

  Lance

  Her mood lifted. Apparently the reward for failure was greater than for success.

  She informed the engineer that he could leave the cattle cars and return for them Sunday morning. She asked him to bring her palace car if the repairs were completed.

  She took her mail inside and sat down at her desk. The other letter was from Jerome Abbott, her attorney. Samantha opened it and slipped out the thick packet.

  My Dear Mrs. Forrester,

  It grieves me to be the bearer of bad news, but I must inform you that a suit has been filed in federal court claiming ownership of the parcel of land your late husband purchased. It is a complicated matter and one I would prefer to explain in person, but my business does not allow me freedom to travel at this time.

  I must inform you, even though I do not consider it a serious claim, that a Papago Indian by the name of Crows Walking has produced papers indicating that he is the real owner of the land your husband bought from Frederick Beaumont.

  I have examined the records carefully and checked the plat maps, and apparently there is some basis for this claim. The parchment Crows Walking put forward explains that a Papago woman—whose name translates to Sun In The Sky—saved the life of a Spanish conquistador who married her and left the land he had acquired by land grant from the king of Spain to Sun In The Sky in his will. The land granted to her and her descendants is quite extensive, including thousands of acres of land in addition to your parcel.