by tiffy
She Who Dreams watched Orlena crumple back into the chair, soothing the fretting infant who seemed to sense his motherʹs anguish. Her amber eyes glistened with tears as she looked into the kindly brown ones. ʺYou see how it is.
He cannot bear to be near us. He does not want us, Mother.ʺ
She Who Dreams had observed the whole scene in silence. Now she said, ʺOr perhaps he wants too much and is afraid to reach out, lest all be taken from him.ʺ
Orlena gave a derisive sob. ʺHe is the one who takes. He stole me from my family in Santa Fe and again took me from the City of Mexico. I am his to keep . . . if only he wanted me or his son.ʺ
ʺPerhaps he believes you do not wish to stay. He has stolen you and forced you to become his woman, to bear his children. A man of pride such as the Night Wind would not want a wife he had to hold prisoner. Think on it and let him consider what it is he plans to sacrifice.ʺ She added cryptically, ʺSoon you will be given a choice. Only make the right one and all will be well.ʺ
ʺCan you not make that beast go faster, Father?ʺ Santiago asked in disgust as the priestʹs mule ambled in a leisurely pace along the mountain trail. Spring glowed about them, reflected in the golden sky, the flowering cacti and the sweet perfume of rain‐washed grasses.
Bartolome seemed curiously unconcerned with the youthʹs impatience to reach his sister. ʺThis poor animal is doing the best he can under the considerable burden he must bear. We will reach the ranch in time enough to see your nephew born.ʺ
Santiagoʹs face darkened. ʺI mislike the letter Joaquín sent you. It is not natural for a man to reject his own child. I thought he loved Orlena, that he would protect her from Ignacio. Now I am not at all certain. Mayhap he can never forgive any of us for our Spanish blood,ʺ he added with a touch of sadness underlying the anger in his voice.
Almost sixteen years old now, Santiago had grown to a manʹs full stature in the past year, even if his voice still cracked and his level of patience was equally erratic. He had received several letters from his sister, filled with details about the ranch, yet oddly devoid of references to her husband and their marriage. He read between the lines that Joaquín often left her alone and that the misunderstanding born of Conalʹs treachery had never been mended. Nothing Bartolome could say in his correspondence to Santiago dissuaded the youth. He had arrived in Chihuahua City weeks before the fateful letter from Joaquín reached the priest.
Once Bartolome read it, he, too, had become troubled. Time alone together awaiting the birth of this child had not mended the rift as he had prayed it might.
Joaquínʹs stubborn pride and all the emotional scars of childhood still plagued him like demons. He felt his beautiful Spanish wife did not love him, but had been trapped into remaining his wife because of her pregnancy. His offer to give her over to her brother and allow their highly irregular marriage to be dissolved was based on those fears.
Bartolome sighed wearily at the folly of youthful nobility. While thinking on the subject of misplaced zeal, the priest looked at his companionʹs set face. Santiago, of course, had totally misread the whole situation, but since Bartolome had been unable to convince either Joaquín or Orlena of the truth of their feelings, he felt it useless to try and convince a stripling lad. He would simply have to rely on his instincts and Santiagoʹs good will when they arrived at the ranch.
ʺAt least I will be able to baptize the baby,ʺ he told himself as he rode slowly up the steep, twisting trail toward the skyline where the verdant Sierra Blanca met slashes of white clouds and azure skies.
As they rode into the valley, Bartolome had the odd feeling that they were expected, but not by Joaquín. They were a month early for his summons because of Santiagoʹs premature arrival in Chihuahua City. Someone else wanted them there. But who? He dismissed the thought as fanciful and reached for the water flask slung across his saddlehorn.
Joaquín was alone in his room soaking in a large copper tub. He could cleanse himself free of dust, blood, and sweat, but how could he live with the guilt?
Again he had failed her, leaving her alone to face an early and difficult birth. She had miscarried once because of the hardship of this wilderness. He should have known it might happen again. But he was so intent on avoiding her that he had taken a cowardʹs way out and deserted her. He thanked whatever deities listened to one so cursed as he that She Who Dreams had come to help his Lioness.
He shifted in the big tub, letting the hot water soothe away the ache of dangerous days and restless nights on the trail. What was he to do now? Bartolome and Santiago would not arrive for weeks. He must somehow retain the wall he had built with such exacting precision between him and Orlena. His passions would explode and he would take her again if he came near her. The physical bond that enslaved him also held her in thrall. He must not let it torture either of them any longer.
But the boyhis son! He had a son he was dying to hold, yet he sat in a tub of rapidly cooling water, drinking himself stuporous to keep from becoming attached to his own flesh and blood. His heart cried out to do as Strong Bow had done with his child, as all Lipan fathers did, carrying their children out beneath the open sky and presenting them to the world. But he could not do that, he concluded bitterly.
He reached for the glass of aguardiente and swallowed the bitter stuff in one swift gulp. It did not help. The image of that tiny dark head was burned into his brain.
He cursed bitterly, not even able to get decently drunk! Joaquín stood up and wrapped a towel about himself, heading for his bed. As he passed out from alcohol and exhaustion, he made himself a promiseon the morrow, while Orlena was out of the room, he would visit his son just one time.
Dawn came, merciless with spring brilliance. Joaquín squinted his eyes against the glow of fuchsia, orange, and amber on the eastern horizon. Yesterday he had learned from Vitorio that Orlena was recuperating rapidly from the birth. She rode every morning now, as soon as she had attended to her infantʹs feeding. He must hurry and dress if he was to see young Bartolome while she was taking her exercise.
The icy water in the basin loosened the cobwebs from his brain as he splashed his face. Shaving was an ordeal because of too much liquor and a severe case of nervousness. His hand actually shook and he cut himself with the blade.
Cursing, he forced himself to calm down and finish the task.
By the time he had completed a hurried toilette and dressed simply in buckskin leggins and a linen shirt, the sun was a golden ball climbing high in the azure sky. He watched Orlena ride away from the corral, wearing a Lipan tunic and leggins, doubtless a gift from She Who Dreams. How magnificently his Lioness rode, with her golden hair trailing behind her in the spring breeze like a blazing banner unfurled. ʺI must not think of her,ʺ he muttered to himself as he turned from the doorway and walked slowly down the hall. She Who Dreams was watching the baby, he knew, but he could deal with her. She understood his heart and would not force him to endure useless prattle about the painful situation between him and Orlena.
When he entered the master bedroom, his eyes glanced past She Who Dreams and fastened on the tiny bundle lying in the crib, kicking beneath the covers.
Detecting a quiet smile wreathing her face, he ignored it and nodded tersely to her as he approached the baby.
ʺI have come to examine my son as is Lipan custom,ʺ he said without preamble.
ʺHe has just eaten and is sleepy. He will not cry if you hold him, I think,ʺ She Who Dreams said non‐committally as she stared out the window, seeming to search for something on the horizon.
Joaquín knelt by the crib and pulled back the blanket. His hand seemed to dwarf the infant, yet with unfocused blue eyes the baby instinctively reached for his hand. One tiny, perfectly formed set of fingers fastened about his thumb.
ʺHow strong he is!ʺ Joaquín exclaimed before he could stifle the words. She Who Dreams remained impassive, staring out the window. ʺIt is your duty to present him to the sky and the four winds,ʺ she said quietly.
J
oaquín hesitated. This was not a Lipan village. ʺHe will be raised as a white man. His blood is more Spanish than Apache,ʺ he equivocated.
She Who Dreams snorted, showing some animation as she turned to him. ʺSun in Splendor is my daughter and your mother was Lipan. That makes your son fully one of our people. We choose who belongs, Night Wind. Give him his Lipan name and show him the world.ʺ
Joaquínʹs hands trembled as he lifted Bartolome from the crib, carefully supporting his spine and head the way he had watched the men of his village do with their children. The baby kicked and squirmed, but did not cry. The burble of a yawn made his small pursed mouth widen into an ʺOʺ. Then his little grasping fists fastened on his fatherʹs shirt and he clung tightly. Joaquín rose on shaky legs and walked from the room toward the open courtyard. All the while the thought hammered in his brain, Fool! Fool! You only make the parting more painful. But he knew he must do this, on his honor as a Lipan warrior. Even if raised by the Europeans, he would have his Lipan naming.
Standing in the blazing morning sun, Joaquín shielded the infant from its intensity and looked about for inspiration. What was his name? Just then Ana came running around the side of the porch, headed across the open courtyard in pursuit of Sweet Singer. The black‐and‐white furball had grown into a handsome young cat who stopped his headlong race and began to twine against Joaquínʹs legs.
ʺNight Wind! She Who Dreams told me you returned last night. How glad my heart is! Is not your son beautiful?ʺ Ana stopped in front of Joaquín, who knelt down and gave her a warm hug with one arm.
ʺYes, Ana, he is beautiful. Today I present him to the sky and the four winds,ʺ he said with a catch in his voice as he arose.
ʺWhat will be his name?ʺ the child asked as she scooped up the groveling, playful young cat.
Looking at Sweet Singer, Joaquín suddenly smiled and said, ʺHe has grown into a fine strong lion cub. I think the same will be true for Bartolome, here. He is the son of a Lioness. His childhood name will be Lion Cub.ʺ
She Who Dreams stood in the shadows of the courtyard porch as Night Wind went through the ritual of presentation. She and Ana watched without making a sound. When Night Wind had finished and turned back to the house, the old woman had vanished.
Lion Cub was tired now and fretting softly as his father returned him to the empty bedroom. Joaquín looked at the big bed where Orlena lay each night now, alone. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of such troubling thoughts, and laid the baby in his crib. Almost at once Bartolome was asleep, but the strong little fist still clung tightly to one of his fatherʹs fingers.
Joaquín knelt and watched him sleep for a long while, emotionally drained from the naming ceremony and the bonding that had irrevocably taken place the instant he had touched the child. ʺSo strong, even as you sleep, my cub,ʺ he whispered as his other hand stroked the fine cap of curly hair on the infantʹs head. ʺYour mother is strong, too, with the courage of a lioness. Be like her and make her proud of you.ʺ
Orlena stood in the hallway, transfixed as she watched her husband kneeling by the crib. Tears! Her emotionless half‐caste, the pitiless renegade, was shedding silent tears as he spoke to his son. She Who Dreams had been right! Knowing she could not let his pride suffer if he found her watching this most private scene, she melted silently away from the room and walked outdoors. She must speak with her foster mother, but first she had much to ponder.
Chapter 28
Soon you will be given a choice. Only make the right one and all will be well. Orlena turned She Who Dreamsʹ words over in her mind as she walked across the courtyard. What choice? How could she convince Joaquín that she loved him?
That she wanted to remain with him and raise their son here in New Mexico?
Ana ran up to her, interrupting her thoughts with a barrage of questions about the naming. He had taken Bartolome outdoors and named him the Lion Cub! A horrifying thought flashed into her mind. Did he wish to keep only the son who shared his Apache blood and rid himself of the Spanish mother? In spite of She Who Dreamsʹ assurances, Orlena was once again stricken with doubts. ʹʹEnough of riddles and waiting games,ʺ she muttered. ʺAna, go watch over little Bartolome,ʺ she instructed the girl. ʺBut first, tell Joaquín I wish to speak with him in his study.ʺ She paced back and forth, working up her courage as she waited for him. ʺIt would be like him to dismiss my request and simply refuse to appear,ʺ she whispered bitterly to herself. Her voice echoed in the large, masculine room. A rough oak table and chair dominated the austere study, which was backed by a simple bookshelf. She ran her hands over the heavy volumeswell‐worn copies of Caesarʹs Gallic Wars and Tacitusʹ Germania as well as the less predictable plays of Lope de Vega. There was also one slim copy of the life of St. Francis, with the spine scarcely bent. More of war and power, less of the simplicity of trust and lovethat was the way Joaquín had lived his life, she mused sadly.
Joaquín stood before the study door trying to prepare himself to face Orlena.
Since his chilly greeting to her upon his return, he had hoped she would be inclined to avoid him until Santiago arrived to take her away. Her sudden summons left him feeling especially vulnerable. He had just come from laying his son in his crib, vowing that he had touched the infant for the first and last time. But if he did not face her now, when? Sooner or later they must have done with this painful travesty of a marriage.
When he opened the door and stepped inside the room, his face was shuttered and calm. Orlena jumped at his quiet entry, then forced herself to assume a facade of coolness.
ʺWell, what is it you wish to discuss that cannot wait until my dayʹs work is done?ʺ He stood poised on the balls of his feet, every muscle in his body flexed, yet deceptively indolent to a casual observer.
Orlena had become far too intimately acquainted with him over the years not to recognize the tension coiled inside him. What she had never been able to discern was the meaning of it. He is angry, she thought with a blaze of temper herself.
How dare he be angry when he had gone off and left her alone to give birth to their child, then returned to treat her so coldly? ʺWhat I wish to discuss, Joaquín, is far more important than a dayʹs workwork I might add, that Pablo and Vitorio do well enough while you are off risking your life in the south!ʺ
He scowled. ʺI have no time for your angry lecturing. I do what I must.ʺ He turned to leave, but her words stopped him.
ʺI wish to discuss our future, husband. Or does such a trivial matter as the life of your son hold so little interest for you?ʺ
He whirled furiously, his mask of control slipping. ʺMy son holds all my interest!ʺ
ʺSo I am given to understand. Ana told me you came this morning while I was out and named him. When I tried to show him to you, you acted as if a bath and hot food were infinitely more significant!ʺ
ʺThat is absurd! I rode in late and was completely amazed that the babe had come a month early,ʺ he replied defensively.
ʺYet the fact that I was great with child did not stop you from riding out in the first placeor from staying away for weeks on end,ʺ she accused him, pouncing on the weakness she found in his argument.
ʺAlways it returns to my savage heritage, does it not? I ride out to rob your precious Spanish, to rescue Indians from their cruelty. I did not intend to desert you or our son.ʺ
ʺIs it that you would not desert your son, but would rid yourself of me? I know what you believe of me, Joaquín, but Bartolome is my son and I will never give him awayany more than I would leave Ana.ʺ She paused, praying for him to deny her accusation.
His jaw worked, clenching and unclenching. How to say what he must say?
ʺYou need not leave Ana or Bartolome. You may take them with you, Lioness, if that is truly what you want,ʺ he said quietly.
Orlena stared at him, stupefied with amazement. ʺTake them and just leave?ʺ she choked out. ʺLeave you to your vendetta! How you must despise my Spanish blood that it taints our son, even Ana by her affection for me!ʺ
She quivered with anger. Tears began to well up and she rubbed furiously at her eyes, brushing them away.
ʺI do not despise you, your blood be damned, Spanish witch! I love you! But I will not hold by force what I cannot have freely given!ʺ
Orlenaʹs breath caught in her throat. Her mind reeled as his shouted words penetrated her pain and anger.
Down the hall, Santiago heard Joaquín and Orlenaʹs voices raised in anger, but he was unable to make out the words they hurled at each other with such fury.
When he and Fray Bartolome had ridden up to the ranch house, She Who Dreams had detained the priest to explain all that had transpired. But the old woman had urged him to go inside and speak with Orlena and Joaquín. Taking a breath for courage, Santiago strode purposefully down the hall toward the sound of the argument and swung wide the door.
The two of them stood on opposite sides of the big table, confronting each other like two combatants. Orlenaʹs face was tear‐stained and she looked dazed and incredulous, as if Joaquín had just struck her a blow or said something she could not comprehend. Joaquínʹs fists were clenched, resting on the table as he stared at her, his powerful chest heaving with anger that flashed in his eyes as he turned from his wife to the intruder.
Orlena, too, tore her eyes from her antagonist and stared at her brother.
ʺSantiago, how did you come here? Whyʺ
After months spent journeying through dangerous wilderness, carrying a brace of Miquelet Locks had become second nature to the youth. Looking at the blazing green eyes and set jaw of the Night Wind caused him to pull one from his sash. He cocked it and pointed it at Joaquín, who was once again an unreadable stranger.
ʺI was summoned a month hence, but it seems I have arrived none too soon,ʺ he replied grimly, noting the ragged, breathless quality of Orlenaʹs voice and the way she was trembling.
