“You shouldn’t.” He eyed her a moment, then said, “You married Burneson because you knew you were pregnant.”
“I would have married him anyway, I think. I always knew, deep down, that you weren’t the kind of man to stay around, to make a family and a life. You only confirmed it.”
“This may not make any difference to you, but I thought about my children after I left you. I found out my wife was alive after all, and that she’d taken them with her to Europe. I went after them. Hell, I think I might have known I was going after her, too, but at the time all I could think about was that I hadn’t even met my children and I’d lost them.”
“Your wife is alive? You must have been very happy to hear that.”
Steve laughed ruefully. “I didn’t know if I wanted to kill her myself or was relieved she wasn’t dead. I did know I wanted my children. Laura and Franco. They’re beautiful, smart and just mischievous enough to escape sainthood.”
A faint smile curved her mouth. “I have three now. Two boys and a girl.” She put a hand on her belly and he saw that it was rounded, swelling out the front of her dress. “And another one on the way. Odd to think now that I once thought I was barren.”
“Will you let me see him, Beth?”
It was said quietly, and the smile faded from her mouth to leave her expression strained. After a moment she nodded, and blew out a heavy breath.
“Yes. Yes, you may see him.”
He followed her to the Burneson spread, a modest but thriving operation, with outbuildings and a two-story main house protected by fences on two sides, and a high cliff on the back side.
As if he’d expected them, Martin Burneson came out to meet them, a dark-headed boy in his arms. The child was squirming slightly, impatiently demanding to be allowed to go and play with Pedro and Fidelito.
“In a moment, Matt. We have a visitor. Remember your manners.”
Steve dismounted, aware of Elizabeth anxiously watching him as he moved toward the child. Martin had set him down, and now held out his hand to Steve.
“You’re welcome for a short visit, Mr. Morgan.”
He nodded understanding and shook Burneson’s hand. When he turned, the boy, a sturdy youngster with dark-blue eyes and surprisingly long lashes, held out his hand in a perfect imitation of Burneson.
“How do you do, sir?”
It was said with a slight air of impatience, the blue eyes cutting toward the side of the house where a small Mexican boy was playing with a large, shaggy dog.
Steve shook his hand solemnly. He recognized some of Franco in the boy, in the set of his eyes and the dark hair and skin.
“I have a son a lot like you,” he said, and smiled at the look of polite disinterest the boy gave him. “Maybe you can meet him one day.”
“That would be very nice, sir.” Obviously having gone the full extent of his social duties, Matthew glanced up at Martin. “May I go now to play with Pedro, Papa? He’s been waiting on me for a very long time.”
“Yes, son. You did well.”
With a glance of happy pride, the boy scampered down the steps and fled across the yard, hurdling a low fence to reach his playmate more quickly. Steve watched him, reminded again of Franco’s impulsive, reckless nature. He glanced back at Elizabeth, standing now beside her husband, and shook his head.
“I’ve always blamed Franco’s daring on his mother. I see I may have been mistaken.”
Elizabeth smiled, though there was a hint of strain still left in her face. “He’s very well-behaved, just full of energy.”
“So Ginny says about Franco.” He glanced around, then back at the couple standing awkwardly on the porch. “So Fidelito is still with you?”
“Oh yes, and Domingo, too, though he’s not as spry as he used to be. He won’t admit to it, of course.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
It was suddenly far too uncomfortable now that he had achieved the purpose of his visit, and he could tell that they wished him gone.
“Will you let me know if he ever needs anything?” He looked directly at Elizabeth, holding her gaze, and knew that she understood.
“Yes, of course. But he’s very happy and healthy. We love him very much.”
“It shows. Well, I’m thankful you let me see him. And if it means anything to you, I won’t intrude.”
Martin Burneson nodded, relief in his eyes. “I rather thought you’d do the honorable thing, Morgan.”
“He has your name,” Elizabeth blurted suddenly, then colored. “His middle name. Morgan. Martin insisted, said that one day he should know about you and his real lineage.”
Steve nodded. “When the time is right, I’ll be glad to answer any questions he may have.”
As he turned, gathering up the reins to his horse, he heard a shout, and paused to see Fidelito running toward him.
“Señor! Señor! You have come back!”
It was the first true welcome he’d had since coming back to Prayers End and Steve grinned, bracing as Fidelito—now a sturdy adolescent—threw himself at him like a cannon ball.
“I saw you, and I thought to myself that you looked so familiar, but it wasn’t until I saw your face closer that I knew it was you,” the youth chattered in idiomatic Spanish, and grinned when Steve answered in the same dialect.
“I hope you haven’t been hiding under any sidewalks lately.”
“Ah, but if I had not, they would have hung you, so you should be grateful. Now, I am too big to hide in so small a space.”
“You’re nearly a man.”
“Sí, so I tell my grandfather, but he says I am still young enough to beat for insolence.”
“Fidelito! Fidelito! Come and get our ball down from the roof of the smokehouse. Pedro has put it up there again when I told him not to throw it so high!”
Young Matthew’s impatient demands snared Fidelito’s attention, and he turned to tell him to wait just a moment while he spoke with an old friend. As he turned back to Steve, he wore a puzzled frown, and then dawning recognition lit his eyes as he looked again at the child.
“It’s time I go,” Steve said quietly, and in Spanish, “I know you can keep a secret well, and that you’ll keep this one, too.”
Fidelito nodded, eyes huge in a face that mirrored his sudden understanding. “Sí, I would never betray you.”
“Tell your grandfather hello for me.”
He didn’t look back this time either, but rode north toward the Prendergast spread. It occurred to him that one day Ginny would learn about the child he’d had with Elizabeth. After all, if Jim Bishop knew—and damn him, he’d found out about it somehow, or he wouldn’t have made that cryptic comment about seeing an old friend or two—it was bound to come out sooner or later. It wasn’t something he could tell Ginny right now, when they were still uncertain of each other, still had doubts. No, he’d wait. The right time to tell her would come around.
16
Sunlight seeped through windows left open to allow in a warm breeze, slanting across ocher walls, spilling bright gold over the mahogany furniture and pretty carpets. At last they were in a decent hotel, new and freshly painted, with the smell still lingering in the air. Ginny and Paco had crossed the border from Presidio, Texas, to the tiny town of Ojinaga in the state of Chihuahua late the night before, and she had gone straight to bed.
But it had been a restless sleep, peopled with dreams of places and faces from her past, and she had tossed and turned the entire night. Maybe she was too tired to sleep, or too frustrated.
I hate waiting! Every day she expected Steve to return, looked for him on the horizon as they rode, expected to see him around each bend in the road and behind every stand of trees. At first, she had lingered in Laredo after Steve left, uncertain what she wanted to do despite Paco’s obvious impatience. Finally she had decided she would travel on to the new rancho after all, too restless to remain in Laredo, and unwilling to go to Zacatecas without Steve.
Damn Steve. Damn Bishop, and damn t
he rebellion that made it unsafe to travel right now! If it wasn’t so risky, she would go on by herself. And why not? She’d done more dangerous things before, had survived it all.
But now she had other things to consider. Her children would be motherless if she miscalculated, and she had just begun to know them, just begun to win over Franco. Laura was easier, accepting her with a sweet, guileless trust that was at once comforting and terrifying. How could she ever betray that faith?
So she waited, restless and miserable, while Paco tended to some business he had here in Ojinaga, deviling him when the days passed and the tension grew too strong to bear.
“Please, Ginny, wait for Steve’s return,” he begged when she joined him downstairs one morning, frustration prompting her to announce her intention to leave immediately for Mexico City. “I don’t deserve this. Save it for him!”
“He’s not here, so you’ll have to listen.” Irritation edged her voice, gave a sharp bite to her words. “It’s been two weeks since we left Laredo. I’m ready to leave tomorrow. Steve still isn’t back. Why did he have to go to New Mexico now?”
“A thousand times you have asked me this, and a thousand times I have said I do not know.” Paco looked almost desperate. “If he does not join us soon, I will hunt for him myself.”
“In two weeks there has been no word from him. He could have at least sent a telegram to let us know when he’ll meet us. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared.”
“Are you more worried that he won’t join us, or that he’s joined someone else?” Paco asked bluntly, startling her into silence.
“I don’t know,” she admitted frankly after a moment. “I just…just feel that something has happened. Or that it will happen. Maybe I’m worried that, now that the fighting has escalated, he’ll be caught up in the rebellion.”
“Steve’s too smart to be dragged into something he can avoid. I doubt he’ll be conscripted into either army.”
Paco’s dry assurance was surprisingly comforting. She smiled.
“Oh, I know I’m being foolish, Paco. But so many times before, we’ve been separated. I just don’t want to take the chance that it will happen again.”
“I have finished what I came here to do. We can leave in the morning for the rancho. By the time we get there, Steve will probably be waiting on us, madder than hell that we took so long to get there.”
She laughed. “Yes, that would be his reaction!”
“Then tomorrow we leave. Once we reach the hacienda, all will be well. You’ll see.”
“Tell me about Señor Valdez,” Ginny said then, more to change the subject than from curiosity. “He has come here to see you three times, and each time he looks at me as if he knows what I look like without my clothes.”
“Valdez?” Paco looked startled, a reaction swiftly hidden as he lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “He is a minor official, unimportant. And he no doubt would love to see you without your clothes, but if he comes again, I will be sure that you do not have to deal with him.”
“Yes, he waits in the lobby, and approaches me even when I am eating dinner. A rather forward man. He reminds me of…of someone very unpleasant.”
Devereaux sprang to mind, a man puffed up with a sense of his own importance, and far too eager to ingratiate himself with higher-ups in the command. The French colonel had lied to her, had tricked her into his bed to save Steve. But Steve had still been condemned, still whipped and sent to prison. She’d learned to recognize men like Devereaux, to see the motivation behind their smiling faces and too polite reassurances.
As the sun slowly sank behind the ragged horizon, light lingered in a reddish haze that made the stark hills glow. Ginny dressed for dinner in her yellow silk, coiled her hair atop her head and secured it with fine Spanish combs and pins. Paco had other plans, he’d said, and suggested she eat dinner in her room, but she didn’t feel like it. What did it matter if she was alone tonight? She certainly could take care of her own needs.
Dusk was balmy, the promise of winter’s chill a distant bite in the air. Above the folded creases of the Chinati Mountains, clouds hung low to cloak serrated peaks. It was the end of the rainy season in Chihuahua, when the desert received most of its rainfall. Flat-topped ridges and gap-toothed passes lined narrow, twisting trails westward; it would be the most difficult, dangerous part of their journey.
But tonight, Ginny thought restlessly, I am not going to think of that, or of anything but what I want to do!
She paused in the arched doorway of the cantina, absorbing the loud, gay music of Mexico that drifted in from the patio. Cottonwood vigas and rajas formed the framework of the cantina, sheathed with creamy adobe. Torches shed cheerful orange light on walls, chasing away shadows and chill as effectively as did the bottles of tequila and wine upon scattered tables. It was a fiesta night, and laughter and noise filled the air. With Presidio just across the border, Tejanos mixed among the Mexicans, dancing with pretty señoritas garbed in bright skirts and blouses, watched over by indulgent parents or sharp-eyed dueñ as.
The spicy scent of chili burned the air, and tortillas sizzled on plates filled with beef, chicken and beans. A fire glowed at one end of the bricked courtyard, more for the patrons than the cantina’s use, and delicious smells emanated from just beyond in the kitchens built at the end of the L-shaped building. A profusion of flowering plants swarmed over low walls, and a huge oak spread ancient branches over the patio, dripping lanterns that bobbed erratic light over dancers and tables.
Ginny navigated the two shallow steps down into the courtyard, her skirts lifted in one hand as she swept the area with a glance. She recognized no one, but hadn’t really expected to, after all.
“Señora Alvarado,” a voice behind her said, and she turned in surprise to see the round-faced, smiling man she’d discussed earlier with Paco. “It is very pleasant to see you again, though I had not expected to see you so soon.”
“Nor I you, Señor Valdez.”
“Ah, it is an unexpected pleasure to find you here on such a lovely night. The rain has stopped at last, and it is time to celebrate. Tell me, señora, where is your escort? I had thought to see him here with you. Such a beautiful lady should not wander about alone in a strange town, heh?”
Her brow lifted in a gesture of haughty reproof that he would be so forward. “He is to meet me here later. I thought perhaps he had already arrived. Now if you will excuse me—?”
It sufficed to keep him at arm’s length, a small lie that she didn’t regret in the least, and Ginny was relieved when Valdez murmured his regrets after escorting her to a table in the corner of the courtyard. From this vantage point, she could see the entire cantina, including the gate.
She could also see Señor Valdez, across from her at a table with two other men, their glances in her direction a constant irritation. One of the men, tall and swarthy, with a penetrating gaze, never took his eyes from her. Pah! Let them stare and wonder. She did not care what they thought.
Besides, Señor Valdez was involved in the business with Paco and Steve somehow, and she suspected it had something to do with the mysterious shipment of cargo that had been unloaded when they disembarked at Point Isabel. She had not seen the long wooden boxes again. A lingering suspicion that perhaps Steve was bringing in guns and ammunition to fuel the rebellion was a niggling worry.
Despite several discussions on the topic, she had no idea if he favored Lerdo or Díaz as Mexico’s next leader. But when had her opinion ever mattered? Not often. Not when it came to war or political intrigue, both of which she detested as much as Steve seemed to enjoy them.
She sipped wine, the rich, fruity sangria that she found so refreshing, and ate sparingly while she watched the dancers grow more lively as the night progressed. Then the melody changed a bit, from El Chinaco, a song of the Juarista guerrilleros, to La Malaguena, then to the music of the peasants, wild and abandoned, a plaintive melody that soared higher than the leafy branches of the towering oak
, a paean to the night sky and lost love. It had been so long since she’d heard the true music of Mexico that she’d almost forgotten how the guitars could sound like a woman’s sobs. Now it was a reminder of her own sobs in those days of marching, apathy and sullen resignation, with only the dancing to make her forget for the moment. The fiery peasant dances of Mexico—the jarabe, corrido and sometimes even the fandango…
It had been the only thing then that allowed her to forget that she had become dirt, lower than the whores who walked the streets of the cities. And she had despised herself then, for continuing to live, for even wanting to survive, to endure.
But that was a long time ago.
There were so many memories in this country; some of them she tried to forget, but never would. Even during the worst times, when she had survived brutality and horror, the music had kept her feeling alive. It was one of the few things from that time that she wanted to remember.
She sipped more sangria, watching and listening, her slippered feet beating a rhythmic tattoo against the tiled floor. Bright skirts were a whirl of color, the men clad in short jackets and snug-fitting pants, heels clicking against stone in the dance steps, the music a hard, driving throb.
“It is too lovely a night for a beautiful woman to sit alone,” a deep male voice murmured. Ginny glanced up to see a handsome young caballero smiling down at her. “I will be happy to show you the steps if you will dance with me, señorita.”
“Yes,” she surprised herself by saying, suddenly reckless, desperate to escape darker memories. “Yes, I would like to dance.”
A combination of sangria and frustration fueled her heedless response. She gave him her hand without hesitating, as the young man swept her into the center of the patio. In the far corner, the musicians played the traditional Jarabe Tapatio, and Ginny turned, her feet swiftly finding the rhythm.
“You know our dances, señorita?” He sounded surprised that a gringa would know the steps, but his black eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
She answered in a Mexican dialect. “Oh, yes, I have not forgotten how. I used to live here, you see, in Mexico, a long time ago.”
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