Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  Yet, despite Steve’s recalcitrance, she felt her trip had not been wasted. She’d decided to fight the suit in every way possible. And that felt more natural for her. This was her land, and no one was going to take it from her without a fight.

  That decided, she proceeded down the hill.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday morning, Camp Picket Post was noisy and crowded with people talking and laughing excitedly.

  Just north of town Samantha spotted a tree near the creek bed that wasn’t yet taken, and they spread their pallets under it. Steve hadn’t shown up at the house, and she had been inordinately disappointed.

  While Juana and Tristera unpacked the food, Samantha walked from tree to tree, visiting with the women who’d ridden in from the surrounding ranches and farms. She sensed no hostility from them. Either they hadn’t been privy to the article that had upset the townspeople or they had less fear—or perhaps better sense. She hoped that the bad reception she’d gotten had been confined to Claire Colson’s clique.

  It felt good to talk to other women, but she found herself watching for Steve, which irritated her. Every time a man approached, she’d glance up and be disappointed when it wasn’t him.

  The youngsters tired of three-legged man and took turns racing horses and practicing their skills at picking a handkerchief off a bush at full gallop. The men did another version, trying to pick a handkerchief off the ground. One man slipped out of the saddle and took a tumble, but he leapt up unhurt. People cheered.

  Samantha strolled back to her own picnic spot, where Juana was napping. Tristera had kicked off her sandals. Each time she moved, Rathwick sneaked a look at her slim ankles and dusty feet.

  Later, just as Juana began serving the food, Sheridan cantered to within a few feet of them and lifted his black hat. He had shaved and slicked back his thick black hair. He had not been able to subdue the unruly eyebrow.

  “Hey, Juana, did you save me something to eat?” Steve’s hazy bronze voice was like no other man’s. As quiet as it was, it jangled something inside Samantha. Her heart gave such a leap she felt it must have been visible for a hundred yards.

  “I knew you wouldn’t want any chicken,” Samantha said, answering for Juana, who rolled her eyes and smiled happily.

  Steve dismounted and lowered himself onto the edge of the quilted pallet, his strong back and shoulder muscles straining against his shirt. Samantha tried not to notice the way his broad shoulders tapered into slim hips.

  Steve glanced at her and his eyes narrowed ruefully. “Hunger can make a man do terrible things.”

  Samantha had no idea what he meant, but heat flushed from her belly outward. Alone or in a crowd, Steve had the ability to establish a curious, taunting intimacy between himself and her. In spite of her desire to distance herself from him, she was captivated by his smiling eyes and the curve of his slightly mocking lips. And she felt sure that he knew it.

  Fortunately no one seemed to notice her distress. Steve grinned at Tristera. “Hey, Tris. I’m even ready to tackle one of your cathead biscuits.”

  “Well then, good afternoon, Mr. Sheridan,” said Samantha quite formally.

  “Mrs. Forrester. Miss Tristera. Juana. Nicholas,” Steve said, nodding at Rathwick.

  “I’m glad you could summon the energy to join us,” Samantha said.

  “Are you?” he asked softly.

  “Of course.”

  Frowning, Rathwick leaned forward and held out his right hand to Steve. “I wanted to apologize for being a little testy the other day. We’d been riding in the heat too long, I guess.”

  Steve gripped the extended hand and shook it. “I don’t do well in the heat myself.”

  They ate Juana’s excellent food in near silence, a tribute to their hunger and her cooking. Then Tristera, who could not seem to keep from picking on Rathwick, looked up with big, innocent eyes and asked, “Capitán, have you heard any more about that Indian woman you were chasing?”

  “Why, yes,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “A fourteen-year-old boy was kidnapped by her a few days ago.”

  “Really?” said Tristera, her eyes getting rounder. “They saw her?”

  “Good description of her actually. The boy said she’s close to six feet tall and strong as a man. She would have killed him, too, except he outsmarted her and got away.”

  Samantha thought it sounded like a story told by a boy needing a reason to be out too late. But she didn’t want to question a rumor that removed suspicion from Tristera.

  Silver Fish and his wives and children rode up. The girls doubled up on ponies behind the women. The boy, Young Hawk, proudly rode a pinto pony. Steve put his plate down and walked out to speak to them.

  Samantha followed, smiling at Red Star, Little Dove, and the children. Nicholas ran out to stand and stare up at Young Hawk, who looked very regal on his mount.

  Silver Fish and Steve spoke Papago. When they finished their conversation, Silver Fish turned his horse and led his family toward a group of Indians on the other side of the creek. Samantha waited until they had passed out of hearing.

  “I’m still amazed that two women can share a husband.”

  Steve grinned. “Maybe it was that or no husband.”

  “Is he Papago?”

  “Ute. He lives among the Papago, probably because he married Papago maidens. But, since he’s also a Mormon, maybe he’s more comfortable among the Papago, who don’t draw any fine lines. They pretty much do as they please. Silver Fish is a fine example of a Ute warrior.”

  “In what way?”

  “You saw his horses, sheep, women, and kids, all eating food and wearing clothes. By reservation Indian standards, he’s a rico, one of the rich ones. Anyone who knows anything about this country’s Indian policies knows that means he has to be one damn fine rustler, not to starve or get caught.”

  They walked back to the quilt under the tree in silence. Games went on all afternoon. The Indians across the creek played their own games and cooked over smoky fires.

  Rathwick dozed against the tree trunk. Nicholas ran and played with children he hadn’t seen since the last social. It was good to see him so well and happy, but Samantha worried that he was wearing himself out and would cough all night and run a fever. At last he ran panting up to the pallet and threw himself down.

  “Water,” he gasped.

  Samantha gave him a drink and felt his forehead, which was warm and damp. “You sit down and rest,” she said firmly.

  “Mama!”

  “I don’t want you sick.”

  “I won’t be…I promise!”

  “Sit, young man.”

  Groaning, Nicholas sat down on the quilt. He squirmed for a few minutes, then turned to Samantha with a frown on his face. “How many kids die of consumption?” he asked.

  “I…don’t know,” she answered, lying. She had recently read an article that claimed all of them did, but she didn’t believe it. Everyone knew at least one man or woman who was supposed to be suffering from consumption and hadn’t died. Robert Louis Stevenson was a good example.

  “How many adults?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “Indian boys get to shoot bows and arrows. How come I don’t have a bow and arrows?”

  “Because you don’t have to kill for the food you eat.”

  “Do Indian boys kill people?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I need to know.”

  “Has an Indian boy tried to kill you?”

  “Not yet. Do Indian boys get sick?”

  “I suppose so. Of course.”

  Steve came over, took a piece of lemon meringue pie, and leaned against the tree. Nicholas watched him eating for a moment.

  “Mr. Sheridan, do you know how many children die of consumption each year?”

  Steve chewed the last bite of his pie and squatted down beside Nicholas. “You worried about getting consumption?”

  “No, sir. I already have it.�
��

  “Then you’re worried you might die of it,” Steve said, glancing quickly at Samantha, who looked alarmed and leaned forward as if she wanted to constrain him. Her frown was fierce, intended to stop him before he said any more.

  Steve continued as if he hadn’t noticed her distress. The boy deserved an answer. “I knew this old woman in Galveston, Texas. I was building a house for her son. She told me she got consumption back in 1820. The doctor told her folks she’d be dead before she reached twelve. They didn’t like hearing that, so they took her to another doctor. He told her consumption was nothing to worry about. He said all she needed to do was plant herself a garden and spend most of her time out in it, that the garden would cure her. Well, she told me this two years ago, and she was eighty years old at the time.”

  “Eighty years old!” Nicholas marveled, and immediately changed the subject. “Indian boys get to have their own bows and arrows. I’m almost seven years old—and I don’t even have a slingshot—”

  “Nicholas,” Samantha cut in.

  “I’m rested now, Mama. Look, I’m hardly breathing at all. Please?”

  “All right,” she said—to get rid of him before he asked any more unsettling questions. Nicholas ran down the hill toward the children playing near the shallow creek.

  Steve gave her an odd look and strode off toward town. Frowning, Samantha turned away in frustration and began to help Juana clean up the mess of their picnic. Steve had responded well, but he might be upset with her for not telling him sooner.

  Sounds of a Mexican band playing in the distance drifted to them. With a long look at Rathwick, Tristera waved at Samantha and headed toward the music.

  Rathwick continued to sit under the tree in the oncoming dusk. He seemed to want Tristera, but he just closed his eyes, content to laze by the tree.

  “I’m worried about Tristera,” Samantha said to Rathwick. “Ham Russell was very rude to her the last time we were in town. Is there any chance you might be willing to keep an eye on her?”

  Rathwick opened his left eye and scowled at her. “If we’re going to be coconspirators, you should call me Matthew.”

  Samantha smiled into his eyes as he slowly stood up. She watched him until he was out of sight, then strolled toward the creek, shallow at the best of times. Now it had narrowed to a slimy ooze of water trickling between green mossy rocks. The brush along the creek bed had turned yellow.

  Eventually Samantha sat down in the shade of a scrawny tree and listened to the cries of children and babies, the laughter of men and women, the shouts of gamblers betting on the horse races. She watched giant mosquitoes squat on the water, heard finches sing and crickets chirp. Beneath a fiery red sky, the sun slipped beneath the horizon.

  “I heard a saying,” Steve said, his voice so near her ear that her heart skipped a beat. His sudden presence reminded her of the night he’d kissed her by that other creek. “Brigham Young said it’s better to fight the Indians with biscuits than with bullets. Do you suppose that might be true of women as well?”

  Samantha turned. Steve hunkered down beside her and proferred a biscuit, split, with bacon between the two halves. Smiling, she took half out of his hand.

  “So, you’re restless, and your beau’s gone off,” he said.

  “Widow women aren’t as exciting as virgins.”

  Without taking his warm khaki gaze off her, Steve grinned, took half his biscuit in one bite, chewed it awhile, swallowed, and grinned some more. He didn’t need to say a word. He might not approve of her, or admire the way she protected Nicholas, but she knew Steve Sheridan much preferred a woman to a girl. Heat warmed her middle and spread out.

  “Are you upset with me, for not telling you about Nicholas?”

  The odd look she’d seen when Nicholas told him sparkled in his eyes again. “Yes and no. Yes: If I’d known, I might have understood why you’re so careful with him. And I might not have trampled on your sacred cows. And no: I’m too humbled to be upset with you for anything right now.”

  “What do you mean?” Samantha asked, her heart beating faster.

  This wasn’t what he wanted to be discussing with her. Tristera had told him that she was going to Phoenix to meet her lover tomorrow. He wanted to ask her not to do that, but he couldn’t. “When I first met you, I thought you were too young and beautiful to be wasted in a desert. Now, I understand what you’re doing here, and I realize…” He paused, scowling at her. “I shouldn’t be telling you this—you’re already too difficult to handle.”

  Samantha smiled at the chagrined expression on his handsome face. “Telling me what?”

  “Now,” he whispered, “now I realize why you’ve always had such a strong appeal for me. A woman with a purpose and a mission is something more than just a woman. I’m not saying this very well, but you’re special, and now I know why. And that I’m…doomed.”

  A pulse punched against her throat, making her self-conscious. “I don’t understand.”

  “Being with you is like being base metal that has come into contact with a philosophers’ stone,” he said, his voice dropping down into huskiness. “I’m being changed against my will.”

  “Is that so bad? Turning into gold?”

  “I’m comfortable being base metal. I might not know how to act if I suddenly turned into gold.”

  He was paying her a wonderful compliment. She felt honored and humbled by his sincerity, felt herself swaying toward him. He leaned forward as if he were going to kiss her, but of course he couldn’t. There was enough daylight left that nearly everyone at the picnic would see them.

  But the urge was strong in her, too. Then, into the growing tension between them wafted the sweet strain of a fiddle responding expertly to the pull of a bow. Steve grinned ruefully. “You think you can dance with me without picking on me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  His eyes sparkling with humor, Steve took her hand and pulled her up. For one moment he smiled into her eyes—and she thought he was going to kiss her, in spite of everything. But then he turned and started to walk toward the sound of the music.

  Nibbling her biscuit, she walked beside him toward the clearing by the water tower where the fiddlers were warming up. People from all over town were heading in the same direction. Watched by their elders, the children continued to play their tow-sack games in the dying evening light. Samantha looked back at Juana, who nodded and waved. Samantha relaxed, sure in the knowledge that Juana would keep an eye on Nicholas and her own son, Eliptio.

  Tristera danced the fandango, its music vibrant and pulsing like her blood. When she was at the school in Flagstaff, sometimes her sister and Luis would come and pick her up for a weekend. Luis’s sisters had taught her to love the Mexican dances.

  Clicking castanets tossed to her by a smiling musician, she felt totally alive for the first time in weeks. Eyes closed, her body twirling with the music, she pretended the estúpido Capitán Rathwick was watching her with great longing in his icy, military heart.

  The dance ended. To her amazement, the first face she saw was Rathwick’s. He looked pale, stiff, and out of place. He belonged with the white people, dancing their waltzes and polkas, and yet he looked only at her.

  Before she could approach the capitán, Joe Dart caught her hand and pulled her away from the ring of clapping, yelling Mexicans.

  “Hi, Tris.”

  “Hi, yourself,” she said, tossing her hair and smiling for Rathwick’s benefit.

  “Hey, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen! And the way you dance! You’re enough to make a man crazy.”

  Joe Dart tried to pull her into his arms, but the heat of his body irritated her. Still hot from dancing, she didn’t want to be held by a man. Besides, men leered at her. And she could no longer see Rathwick’s pale face in the crowd. He must have left.

  “Let me go,” she said, twisting away from Joe.

  “Hey, Tris, how we going to get married someday if you won’t even talk to me?�
�

  “Married?”

  “Well, why not?”

  “Because, little boy, you do what Mama tells you.”

  Joe flushed. “I do not.”

  Tristera laughed and walked away from the dancers. Joe followed. “Wait up, Tris.”

  “No.”

  Tristera let him catch her. Joe’s mentioning marriage put him in a class by himself. No man of any kind had ever proposed to her. Indian men were respectful, but no Indian would risk losing status to marry a half-breed who no longer had her virginity. Being accused of murder had made her think about where she was going with her life. She still didn’t know, but she didn’t want to be an outcast ex-rainmaker to a clan of Indians who hated her. She wanted to have something, be somebody. She wanted Captain Rathwick to look up to her, to want to marry her…

  Rathwick was still watching her. Joe leaned down and kissed her. He tasted of beer and smelled of horses and sweat. His tongue pressed into her mouth, and suddenly Tuvi’s face appeared before her. She could see it as clearly as if he were with her. His image floated in space a foot from her head, startling her so badly she felt scalded by shame, as if Tuvi were actually there, seeing her with this man. Tuvi’s likeness didn’t say anything. He just looked at her the way he’d always done, with his heart so pure she could see it shining in his eyes.

  She struggled out of Joe’s arms and ran away. He tried to pull her back down. “Aw, Tris…”

  “No! Stop it!”

  “Aw, Tris, come back here!” Joe heard her footsteps running away from him into the darkness, just outside the lantern glow. He followed her and lost her. He ran smack into Roy Bowles and Ham Russell less than a hundred feet away. “Did you see which way she went?”

  “You look madder’n a wet hen,” Roy said, grinning.

  “Jest answer my danged question.”

  Roy nudged Ham Russell. “That’s what happens when the sassy little gal you’re hankering after runs off from you.”

  Joe glared his displeasure at Roy. “You counted your teeth lately?”

  “Hell, she ran past here like a scalded dog. Saw her go down that hill. You’ll never find her in the dark. Come on, Joe. Let’s get drunk,” Roy said.