by tiffy
Every night they slept apart, every day they exchanged thin civilities, and every hour Orlena died a bit more. Bartolome was wrong. Even this new life I carry will not bring him back to me. He does not want me. She laughed and smiled with Ana and the other men, but withdrew into an aloof shell around Night Wind.
Joaquín battled within himself as they journeyed toward their final destination.
He did not want to reveal his true feelings to Orlena for fear of her rejection. She had been the one to renounce him when he was taken off in chains to die. She lost the child she had told him she did not want, and then insanely cast the blame on him! And now, bound to him once more by another child, she seemed no more favorably disposed to want a life with him than before.
The threats of Conalʹs sick desire and Ignacioʹs scheming plots were ended. If not for being a prisoner of her womanʹs bodyand her own lustshe could be free of him. She could return to the City of Mexico, even to Spain itself, and live away from the taint of her Apache lover. Ignacio had been right. Their marriage was irregular enough to be easily declared invalid.
A man tormented, he watched her from a distance, trying to decide if it was worth risking the pain of another rejection by baring his heart to her. Perhaps Bartolome had been right and she had tried to bargain for his life with Conal last year. Even now, with Conal Quinn no longer controlling his life through consuming hate, he was still a prisoner.
I am a prisoner of love, not hate, now, he thought. Was one as hopeless as the other?
Certainly he had felt no triumph in Conalʹs death, none of the fierce savage joy he had expected over the years when revenge had kept him alive. He felt only an odd sense of relief, almost a loss of purpose. Perhaps that was why he was clinging to Orlena now, holding her captive and taking her to his ranch. He vowed that when they arrived he would keep her there until the baby was born.
Then, if she wished to leave him and his offspring, he would free her. But can I let her go? The thought haunted him, waking and sleeping.
Digging graves was a hot chore, even on a cool fall day. Bartolome wiped his brow as he surveyed the work of the farmers dragged from their fields by the soldiers whose leaders and comrades had been slain. The priest had just helped an elderly conscripted gravedigger finish his assigned task when the poor man almost fainted from his exertions. So many dead. Bartolome could not regret the inevitable fate of Conal Quinn, or even the ignoble end of Ignacio Valdéz, but there were so many othersSpanish soldiers and even some of Night Windʹs raiders, who had been killed in the bloody skirmish. Saddest of all was the tragic betrayal by Morena Girón that had precipitated the carnage. Her soulʹs fate troubled him deeply, but she had given her life in atonement, saving Joaquín. He prayed the Lord would consider that. Today he would say a funeral mass for all of them, believers and unbelievers, for he could not know among the Apaches who had been baptized and who not. All would have his prayers.
Many were in need of them, none more so than Quinn. One of the soldiers told the priest how his captain had died. Bartolome thanked God in his heart that Joaquín had not killed Conal, who was, from all reports this past year, quite mad.
If only the pestilence of hate did not infect the son as it had the father.
Sighing, he trudged from the large field toward the rear door of the mission. It was time to don his vestments and say the mass. The graves were completed, open wounds in the earth waiting to be filled with the blood and bones of the poor benighted mortals who now reposed in the missionʹs chapel.
Bartolome was half through the mass when he looked up at the small assemblage where the dead outnumbered the living. He saw a dusty, exhausted Santiago Quinn sink white‐faced to his knees in the rear of the chapel.
As soon as the last words of blessing were spoken, Bartolome motioned for his acolytes to attend the altar while he walked to the crude wooden bench where the boy sat. ʹʹThis is not an auspicious time for you to arrive, my son.ʺ He paused, looking at Santiagoʹs glassy‐eyed expression. ʺYou know your father and brother are dead?ʺ
ʺI know Conal Quinn and Ignacio Valdéz are dead,ʺ the boy answered flatly. ʺI would know if Orlena and Joaquín are alive. Where has he taken her? Are they safe?ʺ ʺThey are unharmed, escaped cleanly. Do not fear for them. There is much I would tell you, but this is not the time or place. I must finish the burials by consigning the remains to the earth.ʺ
ʺI will await you here, then. I fear I have no desire to pray for Conal or Ignacio, Father,ʺ Santiago replied quietly.
When Bartolome returned, Fray Alonzo had brought Santiago a hearty repast of roasted beef and fresh vegetables. The youth sat alone in Bartolomeʹs cabin, shoving the food about on his plate, his usual voracious appetite gone.
ʺYou must talk about your feelings, Santiago. He was your father, and in his own way he loved you well,ʺ the priest said as he sat down across the crude wooden table, said grace silently, and dished up a portion of the food for himself.
The boyʹs bright green eyes, so like Conalʹs, filled with tears. ʺTime is distorted in this place, I think. It seems a thousand years ago that we came here. He was so different in Spain. I thought I knew him. So did Orlena.ʺ
ʺAnd you were wrong,ʺ Bartolome added gently. ʺI told her once, long ago, that Conal was really two men, one the loving father you both remember from childhoodʺ
ʺA childhood we have both put behind us,ʺ Santiago interrupted bitterly.
ʺYes, that is the way of growing up. Often it is painful, but you will find no benefit in dwelling on the hurt Conal did you and your sister. Let that part of him die. Let the good memories remain. At least you have many. Joaquín has no such consolation.ʺ
Santiago looked into the wise, sad face of the priest. ʺI will try, Father, but it will be difficult.ʺ He took a few desultory bites of food. ʺTell me of Joaquín and Orlena. How did they escape? Where are they? I would see them both again.ʺ
ʺJoaquín has a ranch far to the north in that isolated valley where he brought me when the exchange was made last year. It prospers now. He has taken his wife there, I am certain. With Conal dead, they will be safe. They await the birth of another child.ʺ
Santiagoʹs eyes glowed with the first animation Bartolome had seen the youth exhibit since he arrived. ʺI am to be an uncle at last! But it is a long journey to that valley. If Orlena lost this babeʺ
ʺShe will not. Joaquín loves her and she him. Ignacio cannot undermine their marriage now. Certainly no one in New Mexico will,ʺ Bartolome added with a twinkle.
ʺI would go see them and find out if I have a nephew or a niece,ʺ he said.
Excitement made his adolescent voice crack.
ʺIt is a long journey for a boy alone. You are most fortunate to have arrived here unharmed. Do not tax your guardian angel further, my son. We will hear from them in due time. Then perhaps they will come here or you may journey there, but for now I imagine your Cousin Bernal in the City of Mexico is beside himself with worry for you. Should you not return there and resume your studies?ʺ
They boy hesitated, recalling several brushes with death along the dangerous trail to Chihuahua City. As usual, Bartolome was right. Cousin Bernal would be frantic. He sighed. ʺI suppose you are right. But I would send a letter while I am yet here for you to post to them. You do have ways of contacting them, do you not?ʺ Bartolome smiled broadly. ʺNever fear. I have my ways.ʺ
New Mexico Province, Winter 1790
The beauty of her surroundings never ceased to awe Orlena. The climb of several thousand feet into the lush valley had been made at a far more sedate pace this time than on her original hasty journey with the Lipan. She sat on her horse, surveying the tall stands of cedar and spruce. The air was cold and tangy with the scent of the trees and wood smoke from the fire in the ranch house below her.
The ranch house. Her home. Its central courtyard was surrounded by the wide, low building of sparkling white adobe. The flat roof, with its open beams, once so ugly to her, now seemed a thing of rare symmet
ry and beauty. As soon as Joaquín had brought them here last fall she had fallen in love with the place, set like a gem in this high, fertile valley. The man who ran the place in Joaquínʹs absence, Pablo Rivas, welcomed them and proudly showed his employer the fat herds of sheep and the wild cattle he and his Indian vaqueros had accumulated.
Joaquín Quinn had perversely decided on using his fatherʹs hated surname now that Conal was dead. Pardoned by the new governor of New Mexico, he was now a rico. If their life was not one of lavish opulence such as Orlena would have enjoyed at the Spanish court, it was nonetheless one of great physical comfort.
She had servants in the large warm house, fresh wholesome food, even lovely gowns and cloaks sewn from the finest fabrics available at the trade fairs. She had Ana and soon would have another child of her own. The cycle of her life as a rancherʹs wife was filled with vital and interesting work, encumbered by none of the hardships and dangers of her days with the Lipan. But she did not have her husbandʹs love.
Joaquín slept with her, making it plain ever since he brought her to his domain that she must accept his touch, yet expect nothing of trust or affection, only the physical satiety he chose to give her. Last night, in spite of her swollen belly and feeling fat and ugly as he disrobed her, she had again given in to his hypnotic caresses, lost in the savage passions they seemed destined to unleash in each other.
ʺWeʹre both prisoners,ʺ she murmured to herself as she sat on the gentle old mare, the only animal slow and even‐tempered enough for her to ride in her advanced pregnancy. After their languorous interlude last night, he had done as he always did, turned from her in the big wide bed, rolled over, and fallen fast asleep. No words of tenderness passed between them. Indeed, they spoke no words at all but for the terse conversation necessary in discharging their duties as patron and patrona of the ranch.
Joaquínʹs unreasoning mistrust of her remained an aching would that would never heal. She had agonized and finally written to Fray Bartolome about their plight. He counseled patience and prayed that the birth of their child would soften her husbandʹs heart. Orlena doubted it. He was as cold as the snowy landscape before her. A late winter storm last night had spread a dusting of silvery white snow across the valley. The mare picked her way carefully down the trail toward the warm haven of the ranch house.
Soon it would be dark and Lupe would have a fragrant pot of stew bubbling on the hearth. Ana and Sweet Singer would worry about her. Joaquín would worry only about the babe. Sometimes she feared he did not even care about his child, but only felt a duty to provide for it and its mother. Knowing how she hated it, he rode with his renegades far from their valley into Nueva Vizcaya where rich caravans traveled. She was sympathetic to the captives they freed, but Joaquínʹs continuing need to punish the Spanish frightened her. He would always be driven by hate, which left no room for love.
Entering the rosy glare of the large, high‐ceilinged kitchen, Orlena immediately looked for Ana, who was usually playing about the hearth while Sweet Singer was under the fat cookʹs feet.
ʺWhere is Ana, Lupe?ʺ She shook her soft woolen cloak free of snow and hung it on a peg near the fire.
The cookʹs eyes widened in consternation. ʺShe is not with you, Doña Orlena?
She left here several hours ago, bundled up for a ride, carrying that pesky cat.
She said you were up on the ridge and she could see plainly to ride up to you. I did notʺ
ʺWhere is Joaquín?ʺ Orlena interrupted impatiently as icy fingers of fear seized her heart. She had seen no trace of Ana and her pony on the wide, open trail down to the valley floor.
ʺThe patron is not come in yet. Mayhap he is still down by the corrals where they work the newly captured mustangs.ʺ
Grabbing the cloak quickly, Orlena flung it about her shoulders in a flourish and vanished down the hall toward the courtyard, the closest way to the corrals.
Joaquín was soaked with sweat in spite of the chill evening air. The frozen ground jarred his bones with every stiff‐legged bounce of the half‐broken stallion. Just as the big brute began to tire and trot around the corral with reasonable docility, Orlenaʹs cries set his ears back and he began to skitter.
Cursing, Joaquín dismounted and turned the reins over to Manuel. ʺRub him down and feed him well.ʺ He turned expectantly toward the sound of her voice, angry with her for such exertion. She was gasping for breath and holding her belly as he reached her in long, ground‐devouring strides. ʺWhat is wrong?ʺ
ʺAna is missing! I have searched everywhere. She rode up to meet me on the ridge, Lupe saidbut I never saw her!ʺ She paused and sucked more air into her lungs.
Joaquín began issuing orders for a search, then turned to Orlena, ʺGo back to the house and wait. It grows dark and we must hurry. Another storm is blowing in.ʺ
ʺNo, I can rideʺ
He shook her, then scooped her into his arms and began to run toward the house as if she were no more than a doll. When he reached the front door, he put her down and shoved her toward Lupe. ʺKeep her inside. Lock her up if you must!ʺ
Turning to Orlena he said, ʺYou will not endanger my child by riding into a blizzard!ʺ
Knowing he was right, but hating the cold, preemptory way he impressed the fact on her, Orlena watched him lope back to where Vitorio was holding Warpaintʹs reins. Joaquín swung gracefully into the saddle like the Lipan raider he was. At his signal, the men spread out, riding in diverse directions as the darkness and the storm drew nearer.
Joaquín remembered Orlenaʹs words about the ridge trail that Ana supposedly took to intercept her. He had instructed the men to fan out all along the ridge and then backtrack toward the valley.
Darkness fell and the snow blew in again, like a white wildcat, clawing at his buckskins. He rode up and down the trail but found not a trace. Tracks on the dark, snow‐blown ground were invisible. Finally, exhausted and dispirited, he sent Vitorio and the other men in for food and a thawing out. Unable to face Orlenaʹs tear‐streaked face if he returned without the child who had become her surrogate daughter, he rode up the ridge once again. Suddenly he remembered a steeper, far less passable way up the cedar‐lined mountain, far too dangerous for his pregnant wife. Would a foolish child in a hurry attempt it?
His hands were too numb to feel the reins as he kneed Warpaint off the steep trail down the first small ravine. When he reached a dead end there, he backtracked and tried the next break in the timber. After a day working horses and being soaked with sweat, he felt his teeth chattering and his breath freezing in his lungs. Ignoring the pain, he persevered, thinking of Ana, so small and alone in the dark and the cold.
The trail was almost at the crest of the ridge and Joaquín despaired, with no other ideas about where to search, when he saw Anaʹs pony. It stood back in the shelter of a thick stand of spruce trees, almost invisible but for its white markings against the dark green boughs. In an instant he dismounted and walked to the skittish beast, calling in Lipan and then Spanish for Ana.
Orlena paced the sala floor, then walked to the front window again. Her vigil had gone on since late afternoon, and now it approached dawn. The storm had worsened through the night. Finally the howl of the wind quieted and the air cleared of sleeting snow drops. The vaqueros were saddling fresh horses down by the corral, preparing to ride out with the first faint streaks of light. Then she heard it over the dying windthe soft plod of Warpaintʹs hooves, interspersed with the loud squalls of Sweet Singer.
With a cry of joy, she threw open the heavy oak doors and raced into the yard.
Joaquín sat hunched on the big piebald with his precious burden swaddled in a blanket. Ana was scarcely visible, but Sweet Singerʹs patchy black‐and‐white head stuck out and his red mouth protested loudly.
Vitorio ran up to the horse and took the blanketwrapped bundle from Joaquín, handling the child and her cat to Orlena. She hugged the girl, crying and questioning at the same time as they walked toward the front door.
ʺWhat h
appened to you? You are nearly frozen!ʺ
ʺSweet Singer jumped down and ran after a rabbit up on the steep trail at the end of the valley,ʺ the child said miserably between chattering teeth. ʺI chased him for a long while before he returned to me and then it was very dark and the wind was blowing. We hid beneath a big spruce tree where there were lots of heavy limbs to protect us from the snow. That is where Night Wind found us.ʺ
At the mention of his name, Orlena looked back at her husband, remembering how wet with sweat and exhausted he had been yesterday evening. Just then, his knees buckled and he slid to the ground where Vitorio caught him. Orlena handed Ana to the cook and reached out for Joaquín, who steadied himself and muttered, ʺI am all right, just numbed with cold. See to the child.ʺ Already Ana was shivering in Lupeʹs arms as the big woman vanished into the house with her and the protesting cat.
ʺHeat some bricks for her bed quickly,ʺ Orlena called after Lupe. Turning to Joaquín she said quietly. ʺThank you for saving her. Are you certain you are all right?ʺ She longed to touch his frozen face, but his forbidding expression stayed her hand.
ʺI will go to the kitchen and warm up. I could use some hot soup. You and Lupe see to Ana first.ʺ
Ana needed all the skills Orlena had learned from She Who Dreams. In fact, as she undressed the frozen child and bundled her into a warm bed filled with heated bricks, Orlena prayed that the medicine woman would come to take charge. ʺBut she is not here, and I am.ʺ
Forcing herself to be practical, she rubbed the childʹs frozen arms and legs, restoring circulation, then kept her warmly covered in her room with a blazing fire roaring in the fireplace.
Lupe quickly brought a large bowl of broth, which they tried to induce the child to drink. However, exhaustion won out over hunger and Ana drifted into a restless sleep, once assured that the mischief maker, Sweet Singer, was there to cuddle with her.
