Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  Assuming the most placating air he could muster, Ignacio smiled. ʺI shall write my sister forthwith, Don Rigo. You are right. She must look ahead to new joys, not back to old tragedies. I shall personally escort her from the convent to your esteemed presence!ʺ

  When he had finally gotten rid of the bumbling colonial, he had Morena Girónʹs half‐caste shown in. He must gamble everything on the truth of her letter now.

  Surveying the expressionless savage, he said coldly, ʺYour ladyʺhe paused to emphasize the dubiousness of the termʺhad better have my sister. I would see Orlena unharmed, safely returned to this house within a fortnight. If she is in any way damaged, or if she is not in Chihuahua City after I make such an arduous journey, I shall be most unhappy. Do I make myself quite clear?ʺ At the savageʹs sullen nod, he felt an irrational urge to fling his inkwell into the shuttered bronze face. White men of all classes and temperaments he could read and intimidate, but there was something about the accursed Indians from the north that left them impervious to his powers.

  ʺWhen would you leave, Don Ignacio?ʺ the halfcaste asked flatly.

  Looking at the papers scattered across his desk, he cursed his errant sister for the thousandth time and snapped, ʺEarly on the morrow!ʺ

  As Ignacio and his hand‐picked soldiers thundered off that morning, Santiago Quinn paid a rare visit to his brotherʹs city house. He had been hearing distressing rumors at Don Bernalʹs house. Only last night his motherʹs cousin and several other of the viceroyʹs officers had gathered for dinner there. When they thought him dismissed for his studies and out of earshot, they discussed the viceroyʹs nephew, Don Rodrigo Colón, and his pending marriage to Orlena.

  Santiago knew she had not signed the petitions, and he had believed her safe with Joaquín in the north. But Don Bernal himself spoke of the boastful Rigoʹs mother planning a large ball to fête her sonʹs new fiancée the very next month.

  What was Ignacio up to? Santiago was determined to find out. As he sat in the closed carriage and watched through narrowed eyes, the line of horsemen with Ignacio bouncing unhappily in the lead, rode away.

  ʺHe must be journeying far to the north where there are no roads, else he would never ride,ʺ Santiago muttered to himself in contempt. For all his fine riding horses back in Spain, Ignacio had always preferred the comforts of a well‐sprung carriage. He must have found Orlena and Joaquín! Or he was off to threaten Fray Bartolome in an effort to recover their sister. Calling out instructions to the driver, he only prayed he could ride as swiftly as a Lipan warrior once he was able to secure a horse and enough provisions to see him all the way from the City of Mexico to the Franciscans in Nueva Vizcaya.

  Blaise Pascal hated Texas almost as much as he hated New Mexico, but neither was as bad as the filthy, sweltering little pigsties along the Rio Conchos in eastern Nueva Vizcaya. After a year of hiding and existing by his wits, the wily Frenchman was finally in reach of his goal. He had secured a shipment of guns in El Paso, old and defective, yet with samples from each box that would fire. These he would sell to traders on the gulf in return for passage to New Orleans.

  When Quinn imprisoned him and then Valdéz interrogated him, he had been certain of death. But after Conal was relieved of his post, the new governor had freed him. Of course, no mention of the five thousand pesos owed him was ever made and he was politic enough not to press the issue. Sooner or later, the escaped Night Wind would learn who had betrayed the priest to Conal, and then his life in New Spain would be worth less than one of the defective guns he was selling.

  Stealing was not easy when a man had only one good leg with which to make a hasty escape, but Pascal was a clever card cheat and a shrewd bargainer. He soon resumed his illegal trading expeditions to the Comanche of Texas, scrupulously avoiding any contact with Apache bands who might report his whereabouts to Night Wind. But sufficient cash to get him east of the Sabine remained out of his grasp. Until now. The last he had heard, Night Wind was in Chihuahua. He himself had only shaken the dust of El Paso del Norte from his clothes this past week. In another week he would reach the coast and his assignation with the French merchantmen. Of course, it meant crossing within a scant one hundred miles of Chihuahua City. He had to drop south and then head east to the Rio Bravo and cross into CoahuilaLipan territory. Sweating, he assured himself that it was not where the raider ranged. Night Wind preyed upon gold and silver mines in western Nueva Vizcaya. ʺI will be well away before I must ever see him againnot to mention that madman, Conal Quinn.ʺ

  The fat little Frenchman considered the captain with a shudder of revulsion. He did what he had to, to survive, but Colorado Quinn truly enjoyed his work killing Indians. When Pascal left El Paso, the Irishman was at the presidio for a brief respite from his relentless pursuit of savages. The captain scoured New Mexico, Texas, and Nueva Vizcaya for Night Wind, who seemed to be everywhereand nowhere. Pascal had seen the curling brown trophies of ears adorning Quinnʹs neckfrom a discreet distance in a crowd the day Conal rode in.

  The next day, the Frenchman rode out.

  His devoutest wish was that Quinn and his cub would kill each other, but he did not plan to remain in New Spain to see it. He sat in the small, stuffy room that passed for a cantina, sipping the foul, local aguardiente and wrinkling his nose at the congealed brown mass of refried beans on the chipped clay plate in front of him. Outside, a coyote howled in the distance and the Rio Conchos snaked its way to the Bravo.

  Pascal and the three Mexicans who rode with him had stopped for the night at this desolate way station. He watched a large gray spider crawl up the corner of the wall and debated sleeping in the chill desert night rather than using the dubious facilities of the cantinaʹs sleeping rooms in the rear.

  Suddenly, the cold prickle of a knife blade pressed menacingly against his neck.

  He stiffened and attempted to turn his head, but the blade pressed harder, stopping any movement.

  The crudely built cane chair creaked in protest beneath his weight as he squirmed. ʺWho are you? What do you want?ʺ he whispered in Spanish, looking about for his companions, who had left the room.

  ʺYou know well enough what I want, Blaise,ʺ a familiar voice replied softly.

  ʺJoaquín!ʺ

  ʺJust now I choose to be the Lipan, Night Wind, not Father Bartolomeʹs pupil.

  You do remember Bartolome, the gentle man of God you betrayed to Conal, do you not, Blaise?ʺ

  ʺI am innocent! Why do you accuse me? Is it because Conal imprisoned me while you were in Santa Fe? I can explainʺ

  The blade drew a thin trickle of blood that ran an uneven course over the layers of fat and whiskers on Pascalʹs neck, dripping onto his buckskin shirt. He grew silent, but his mind raced.

  ʺYou have saved me a long ride, old friend,ʺ Joaquín said conversationally.

  ʺImagine my surprise when Hoarse Bark and Cloth Fox encountered us on the way to El Paso with the tale of a wooden‐legged Frenchman trading guns along the Conchos.ʺ

  Hoarse Bark walked silently in front of Pascal, smiling evilly. ʺYou sell guns to the Comanche, our sworn enemies, white man. But I have heard from many that you do us a service. The guns do not fire, but explode in the userʹs face.ʹʹ

  The patrons of the cantina listened to the conversation and observed the raiders.

  Dressed in buckskin trousers and heavily armed, several of the strangers looked to be full‐blooded Apaches. Their half‐caste leader closely resembled the description issued by the presidio soldiers of the Night Wind. No one in the tiny isolated village would help the Frenchman. They watched impassively as the renegades departed with their captive.

  One man stood by the doorway, watching the riders head off with Pascal. A pity.

  He had hoped to turn a good profit from the guns, but now the Apaches had taken the prize. He knew they would kill his partner. Still, it might not be a total loss. He had learned before they left El Paso that Colorado Quinn was headed southeast along the Bravo. Perhaps there might be a reward from
the Irishman for such recent news of the renegadeʹs locationif the captain from El Paso still harbored such an unnatural obsession for the one called Night Wind.

  Orlena stooped to pick up the slop bucket from beneath the bed. Unexpectedly her stomach churned, and she sat back on her haunches until the sudden seizure abated. Having worked in the hospital and tended terrible injuries for the past six weeks, Orlena knew she was not squeamish. Doggedly, she picked up the heavy bucket after dragging it clear of the bed where an Apache boy slept. He had been terribly beaten and starved. As soon as she finished cleaning up the row of beds, she must try to spoon some more broth down his throat. As she hefted the bucket and walked slowly down the aisle, the malaise began to pass.

  Observing her from the door, Fray Bartolome walked toward her and took the wooden pail from her hands. ʺThis noisome stuff is too heavy for you. Why do you not go and prepare your poultices for the patients with fevered wounds? I will take care of this.ʺ

  Shoving the sleeve of her loose white blouse above her tanned elbow, Orlena smiled wearily. ʺI am fine, and the pail is not that heavy. I must have eaten something for breakfast that disagreed with my stomach. A most unusual occurrence, I assure you.ʺ

  ʺAnd yesterday?ʺ Bartolome prompted. ʺThen, too, you shoved your midday meal about, refusing to eat. Do not fear for Joaquín. The journey to El Paso is long and they may ride farther than that.ʺ His face clouded. ʺOn the trail of vengeance, he knows infinite patience. He has only been away a fortnight. It may be far longer, but he will return for you. I am certain of it,ʹʹ he said with conviction.

  Orlena smiled as they walked outdoors. The day was as golden as her hair, warm with the kiss of autumn. She took a deep, calming breath and said, ʺHe has left me many times, Bartolome. Once, in the Lipan village, I hoped that we could build a life together . . . but we have done too many cruelties to each other.ʺ Her voice choked.

  ʺAnd lost the child of your love, I know,ʺ he replied gently. ʺBut have you considered that the Lord often gives even when he inexplicably takes away?ʺ

  Orlena looked into his clear gray eyes, trying to read the cryptic remark. Slowly, comprehension dawned. ʺYou must have read as much of those Jewish physicianʹs writings as you did of St. Francis.ʺ Her hands unconsciously moved to her belly in a protective gesture. ʺIt has been scarcely two months . . . I am not certain.ʺ

  Bartolomeʹs smile was beaming. ʺI am not certain either, but is it not something to hope for again?ʺ

  Her face was radiant. ʺYes, yes it is. I was so desolate when I lost the first child.

  Now, if I can give Joaquín another, perhaps it will help mend things at last.ʺ

  ʺI am certain of that. Only give him time, Orlena.ʺ

  Chapter 25

  Time dragged interminably for Joaquín as they rode toward Chihuahua. He could still see Blaise Pascalʹs smashed and shredded face after the Biscayan steel musket exploded, leaving him writhing on the earth, begging the Night Wind to kill him and end his agony. Much to Hoarse Barkʹs disgust, he had ordered the Frenchman shot instead of letting him die slowly.

  The raiders had made Pascal fire half a dozen of the old muskets, whose barrels were infamous for exploding upon firing. With each shot that echoed across the empty desert air, Pascalʹs round face beaded with more sweat. Joaquín knew he understood their game. They would make him load and fire until the old steel betrayed him. By the time the trembling, pleading outcast fired the fatal gun, Joaquín had grown sick of the whole affair. He only wanted to see his treacherous former ally dead and return to Orlena.

  Orlena, his golden woman. As he sat staring into the flames of the campfire late that night, he realized that he had not even thought of Quinn in days. Was she blunting his desire for revenge? Certainly in the past two years since he met her, she had filled his thoughts far more than anyone else, even Canal. His vengeance had focused upon her when she and Conal betrayed him. His hatred of her had kept him alive in that prison sweatbox when thoughts of Conalʹs perfidy could not have done so.

  Bartolome had told him how Conal had blackmailed her, but he had not believed it. Beautiful, innocent‐eyed Orlena could charm birds from trees. Even tame the wind? the thought came unbidden. She turned every man she ever met into her creature. For all his boasting to Conal about enslaving her, he knew that Orlena had won her own victory. She might be powerless to resist his physical appeal while he held her captive, but even when he was separated from her, she held him in thrall. Tomorrow he would see her again. With each day spent traveling across the trackless wilderness, she called to him.

  As they rode into the neck of the lush valley west of Chihuahua City, he again considered the priestʹs explanation about what Orlena had said to him when Conal held him prisoner. Did she indeed lie in the foolish hope of saving his life?

  Perhaps to save the life of their child, which Conal could also have threatened?

  But then, why the words with Ignacio that he had overheard in the City of Mexico? She had offered him no defense for her actions then. But considering how little he believed her the first time, why should she have tried?

  Joaquín mulled over his warring emotions but came no closer to an answer. She worked tirelessly with the Indians at the hospital and adored the children at the school. Ana loved her to distraction, and Orlena seemed to return that feeling.

  ʺStill she is my prisoner. Perhaps living with me is preferable to the fops Ignacio would saddle her with if she returned to him,ʺ he muttered to himself as the fertile landscape surrounding Rancho Girón came into view. Suddenly he felt a sense of urgency. He must talk with his wife and find out the truth. This war between them must not continue.

  Inside the big hacienda, Morena paced furiously, her black eyes flashing with anger at the presemptuous Spaniard who was nothing more than a prisoner here.

  A temporary prisoner, she thought with a smile of satisfaction as she said, ʺI told you not to bring any of the children here. It is too dangerous.ʺ

  Orlena stood by the sala window watching Ana play with the kitten she had given the child as a special pet. ʺAna is only a little girl who dresses as a paisana and speaks perfectly clear Spanish now. No one would possibly suspect she was ever a captured Lipan. I plan to keep her with me,ʺ she said defiantly to the beautiful brunette.

  Morena scoffed. ʺHad you best not ask your husbandʹs permission first, Spaniard? For all your highborn ladyʹs manners, you are still his prisoner.ʺ

  Fighting the flush of anger and humiliation that her adversaryʹs truthful accusation evoked, Orlena replied with disdain, ʺI am Joaquínʹs wife, no matter that his former mistress might wish it otherwise.ʺ With that, she turned and walked from the room. The warm, fresh air of the courtyard with its sparkling fountains and laughing child beckoned her.

  Morena stared with slitted eyes at the proud golden head, held so regally as the Spaniard walked away. ʺSoon you will be gone and Night Wind will be mine once more,ʺ she whispered on the empty air. Just then, a commotion out front distracted her from her scheming reverie. Perhaps Ignacio had arrived already!

  She glided down the hall, smoothing the folds of her red silk gown. She must be very careful how she handled him so as not to endanger either Night Wind or the rescue mission.

  Before she reached the front door, it swung open and Joaquín strode in, dusty and travel‐stained in old buckskins and soft moccasins. She froze in horror.

  ʺNight Wind! Why have you returned so soon? That wicked Frenchman is going to escape,ʺ she quickly added, covering her blurted question as best she could.

  His harshly chiseled face looked weary, but the green eyes burned with a hidden flame. Brushing aside her burst of questions, he replied simply, ʺPascal is dead.

  Where is Orlena?ʺ

  Before Morena could think up a lie with which to get him to leave the house, he overheard a shriek of childish laughter and the soft chuckle of his wifeʹs voice from the end of the hall. She and Ana were heading to the kitchen. Ignoring Morena, he walked wit
h purposeful strides toward the sound of the laughter.

  When he reached the kitchen, he found Orlena and Ana kneeling on the floor. A small black‐and‐white cat was between them, lapping greedily from a bowl of cream. The scowling cook looked up at him and shrugged silently, then padded out the rear door to check the fires in her bread ovens.

  ʺOrlena, he is so splendid, all black‐and‐white patches, just like the Night Windʹs stallion,ʺ the girl said as she stroked the soft, fluffy fur. The kitten continued to drink, but began to purr loudly.

  ʺYou cannot call such a small sweet thing Warpaint,ʺ Orlena said with such warmth in her voice it held Joaquín immobilized in the doorway. She had once used that tone with him, long ago.

  ʺNo, I suppose not,ʺ Ana said consideringly. ʺBut listen to how he sings to us. I know! I shall name him Sweet Singer for his lovely purring.ʺ

  ʺNot a warriorʹs name, but a fine one,ʺ Joaquín said as he stood studying Orlenaʹs reaction. Her eyes darkened to deepest amber as she looked at him, while Ana leaped up and flew into his arms with a squeal of delight.

  Gone was the shy, frightened child who lived haunted by death and violence. In her place was this beaming little girl with liquid brown eyes that danced with happiness. He knew Orlena had wrought the change in the child. As he hugged her, his eyes never left his wifeʹs face. If only he could read her emotions as easily as Anaʹs.

  Orlena felt her heart turn over as she watched her dark lover toss the child up in the air and then hug her. A broad smile slashed the chiseled perfection of his swarthy face, and his green eyes glowed with delight as he and Ana lapsed into the Lipan dialect. Orlena listened as the child sang her praises. Does he believe anything good about me? Slowly she stood up, uncertain of what to do, wanting to run as artlessly into his arms as Ana had, yet afraid to risk rejection or scorn by doing so.