Love in the Wind

by Madeline Baker

  “It could be arranged, my pet,” Rosa assured the outlaw with a broad grin. “Indeed, it could be arranged.”

  “We will speak of it later tonight,” El Lobo promised. “But now I must see Herrera on a matter of business.”

  “Business, eh?” the woman murmured with a knowing wink. “Are you buying or selling?”

  “Selling,” El Lobo answered. He gestured at Katy, who was standing between Pablo and Carlito, a sullen expression on her face. “I have brought Herrera a new puta.”

  Hands on her hips, her head tilted thoughtfully to one side, Rosa contemplated the white girl. “Her hair is the wrong color, and she is a little too round, but I think maybe…yes, I think Frank might like her.” The woman shrugged. “And if he does not, Donnelly will take her off your hands. He will buy anything with breasts.”

  El Lobo snorted disdainfully. “Donnelly! He does not know quality from trash.”

  “But you would not bring me trash, eh, amigo?”

  All heads turned toward a man emerging from a door at the foot of the winding staircase.

  “Frank!” El Lobo said jovially. “It is good to see you again, compadre.”

  “And you,” Herrera said amiably.

  The two men shook hands like long-lost friends. Frank Herrera was tall and slender, with close-cropped black hair and dark-brown eyes. He was clean-shaven, impeccably dressed in tight black pants and a bright blue silk shirt. A long white neckerchief was loosely knotted at his throat. His feet were encased in a pair of expensive black leather boots.

  Katy blushed furiously as Herrera’s attention shifted from El Lobo to herself. Herrera’s eyes were intense as they studied her inch by inch, leaving Katy with the feeling that he knew exactly what she looked like inside and out.

  “Not bad,” Herrera decided. “Yellow hair would be better, but…” He shrugged. “You can’t have everything. How much do you want for her?”

  “Only a thousand dollars,” El Lobo said in a voice as soft and smooth as satin. His tone indicated it was not enough for such a prize but, because they were friends, he was willing to be generous.

  “Done,” Herrera said. Without batting an eye, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a fat wad of bills. Looking almost bored, he peeled off ten one hundred dollar bills and handed them to El Lobo.

  “Rosa!” El Lobo cried, transferring the money to his own pocket. “Drinks all around.”

  “What’s your name, puta?” Herrera asked Katy. His voice was deep and rich, like velvet over steel.

  “I am not a whore,” Katy said indignantly. “Not for you. Not for anyone.”

  “I like a girl with spirit,” Herrera remarked. Lazily, his hand reached out to curl around Katy’s slender throat. The gesture was clearly a warning. “But do not push me too far. What is your name?”

  “Katy Marie Alvarez.”

  Herrera dropped his hand from her throat. “You have some Spanish blood, es verdad?”

  “Yes,” Katy answered. “My father was a Spaniard, if that makes any difference.”

  “No difference at all,” Herrera said, grinning arrogantly. “I buy and sell without prejudice.”

  “How noble of you,” Katy retorted caustically. “What are your plans for me?”

  Herrera made a broad gesture that encompassed the whole house. “You will work here, for me. I think you will be good for business.”

  “And I will be her first customer,” Carlito announced. “How much for a night with your new whore?”

  “More than you can afford, little man,” Herrera assured him.

  But Carlito was not so easily discouraged. He had been lusting after the white woman since the moment he first saw her. His hands ached to touch her, his dreams were filled with images of her golden body writhing beneath him. He meant to have her, no matter what the cost.

  “How much?” Carlito insisted. “I have money.”

  “For the whole night?” Herrera said. “One hundred American dollars.”

  Carlito looked stricken. “How much for just one hour?” he asked plaintively.

  “Twenty-five dollars, amigo. In advance.”

  A crooked grin split Carlito’s ugly face. “Done!” he cried jubilantly. Delving into his pocket, he withdrew a wad of crumpled bills and thrust the greenbacks into Herrera’s hand.

  Grabbing Katy’s arm, he headed for the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “What room can I use?”

  Katy’s face went white with fear and revulsion as she realized Herrera had just sold her body to Carlito, and that the ugly little man meant to take advantage of her as soon as he could get her into a bed. With a wordless cry, she tried to twist out of Carlito’s grasp. When that failed, she sank her teeth into his wrist.

  Carlito howled with pain, but he did not release his hold on Katy’s arm. Tears of frustration welled in Katy’s eyes as she realized she could not escape the outlaw and that no one in the room was going to help her. Indeed, the other outlaws were laughing uproariously as they shouted words of encouragement to Carlito as he endeavored to drag Katy up the stairs.

  “Carlito. Let the woman go.”

  The ugly little man stopped dead in his tracks. Still holding tightly to Katy, his eyes darted to Herrera. “Do I have to let her go, Frank?” he whined. “Do I? You said I could have her.”

  Herrera shrugged. “Miguel is my partner. I must listen to him.”

  Shoulders slumped in defeat, face sullen with disappointment, Carlito dropped Katy’s arm. Muttering under his breath, the outlaw went to the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

  Katy looked past Herrera to the man who had spoken in her behalf. He was sitting alone in a darkened corner of the room. He bore a striking resemblance to Frank Herrera. The same black hair, the same wide mouth, the same good looks. Only this man’s eyes were different. They were of a lighter brown than Herrera’s and filled with compassion.

  “Well, Miguel?” Herrera asked. “What do you want to do with her?”

  “I want her for myself.”

  “You want her?” Carlito laughed, as if he had just heard a good joke. “Why would you want a woman?”

  “Shut your mouth, Carlito!” Frank Herrera snarled, “or I will shut it for you. Permanently!” Frank smiled fondly at the man in the chair. “Very well, hermano, she is yours. Alfaro! Take Miguel and the woman to the house.”

  A huge Mexican appeared out of an adjoining room. Stooping, he lifted Miguel Herrera out of the chair as if he were a child, and it was then that Katy saw that Miguel Herrera’s legs were shriveled and useless.

  “Venga,” Alfaro said to Katy, and she quickly followed the big man out of the brothel and into the sunlight, grateful to be spared the humiliation and degradation of life as a prostitute.

  Outside, Katy thought fleetingly of trying to run away, but there was really no place to run. Lost and alone, she would be easy prey for man or beast. She saw her thoughts mirrored in Alfaro’s eyes as he spared her one brief glance, then led the way toward the fortress Katy had noticed when they first rode into the town.

  As they drew near, Katy saw there were armed guards patrolling the high walls. Massive gates swung open to admit them. A house stood in the middle of the fortress. It was an impressive structure. Two stories high, it was built of red brick and adobe. A wide veranda spanned the front of the house. Flowers bloomed in red clay pots. A fountain bubbled in the courtyard. Peacocks strutted in the yard. Peons dressed in stark white were busily engaged in tending sheep and goats and cattle or working in the vast gardens alongside the house. A little beyond, a huge blacksmith was forging a horseshoe.

  Awed by the magnificence of the place, Katy followed Alfaro into the house and down a wide, whitewashed hallway into a spacious sunlit parlor. Gently, the big Mexican placed Miguel in a large armchair and covered his wasted legs with a brightly colored blanket.

  “Can I get you anything, señor?” Alfaro queried. “Brandy, perhaps?”

  “Not now,” Miguel answered, his eyes on Katy’s f
ace. “I will send for you if I require anything.”

  With a bow, Alfaro left the room.

  Questions, Katy mused. So many questions tumbled through her mind. Bluntly, she asked the one causing her the most concern, though it brought a bright flush to her cheeks.

  “Am I to be your mistress?”

  Sadly, Miguel shook his head. “I wish it were to be so, chiquita, for you are very beautiful. But I am no better than a gelding. I remember how it was done, but I can no longer perform.”

  “I’m sorry. How did it happen?”

  Miguel shrugged. “A fall from a horse. One day I was a vaquero, the next day I was a useless cripple. I have no feeling below my waist, no movement. Nothing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Katy said again. “Truly sorry.”

  “It happened a long time ago,” Miguel said with a wave of a graceful hand. “Sit down, Katy Marie, and tell me how you came to be in my brother’s cantina.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I am not going anywhere,” Miguel said with a wistful smile.

  “I’ve been living with the Cheyenne,” Katy began. “When the man who owned me learned there was going to be war with the whites, he decided to take me back to my own people where I would be safe.”

  “He cared for you, this savage?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you come to be living with the Cheyenne?”

  “I was on my way to enter a convent when some Indians attacked the coach. Everyone else was killed. I thought I would also die when the savages left me for dead, but later that day another Indian came along. He took me back to his people and gave me to his friend, to be a slave.”

  “You were going to be a nun?”

  “Yes.” Katy stared out the window into the courtyard. How different her life had turned out from what she had expected. For a woman who had been determined to shun men the rest of her life, she had certainly been involved with a variety of them in the past two years. First she had been Tall Buffalo’s captive, then she had been Iron Wing’s slave and, later, his willing mistress. She had narrowly escaped being a harlot, and now she was to be…what? Surely no other woman who had started out to be a nun had taken such a wide detour!

  “Would you care for something to drink?” Miguel asked solicitously. “Some lemonade, perhaps, or a glass of wine?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Katy sat on the edge of the sofa, poised like a bird ready to take flight. “If I am not to be your mistress, what do you want with me?”

  “I want you to be my companion. I get lonely here, with no one to talk to but Alfaro and the servants. Frank spends most of his time at the cantina.”

  “That’s all?” Katy whispered in disbelief. “Just a companion?”

  “Yes. You look like a young woman of some quality and intelligence. You are certainly beautiful. Perhaps you will bring some charm and grace into this old house.”

  Relief washed over Katy, leaving her suddenly limp and weak. A companion! Unexpectedly, she began to cry. What a blessing when compared to the awful fate she had imagined at Herrera’s.

  “I’ll be happy to be your companion,” she said, blinking back her tears. “I’m so grateful to you for saving me from that beast, Carlito, I’ll gladly do anything you say.”

  Miguel smiled as he handed her a crisp linen handkerchief. “I think we will get on well, you and I,” he said, beaming at her. “Very well, indeed.”

  And they did. Katy spent her days at Miguel’s side. Together, they read the plays of Shakespeare, sometimes taking parts and acting them out, sometimes switching roles, so that Katy played the male parts and Miguel read the women’s lines. Miguel had a wonderful voice, deep and resonant, and Katy thought the stage had missed a great talent, for his voice had the power to evoke deep emotions. They read poetry by the hour and Katy, who had never had more than a shallow appreciation for poems or verse, gained a rich appreciation for the beauty and versatility of words that could fill a heart with laughter, or bring quick tears to her eyes. Sometimes they discussed politics or religion or the complex nature of humanity.

  Miguel was a knowledgeable man. Unable to pursue any other interests, he had spent years reading books, all kinds of books. He had a vast library, the shelves filled to overflowing with books on every topic one could imagine. There were plays, Bibles, histories, comedies, books on foreign countries and languages, on folklore and witchcraft.

  Sometimes Katy felt as though she were a schoolgirl again, and Miguel was her professor. He spoke French and Latin fluently, and Katy began to learn a bit of both languages.

  Miguel taught her to play poker, and to play chess, and they whiled away long hours at both.

  Except for Alfaro, the cook and the housekeeper, they lived in the fortress alone.

  “Why do you stay here?” Katy asked one evening. “It’s like being in prison.”

  “My father built this house for my mother. The high walls were for protection against Indians and Comancheros.” Miguel laughed softly. “It protected us from the savages, but not life. My parents both died of pneumonia when Frank and I were children. Anna raised us. As for why I stay…” Miguel shrugged. “There are still outlaws and Indians, and I have nowhere else to go.”

  Katy nodded. Helpless as Miguel was, the high walls of the fortress obviously gave him a sense of security. It was, after all, virtually impregnable. And his brother was here. Though they were vastly different, Katy knew the two men shared a deep bond.

  Frank Herrera rarely came to the house. When he did, it was usually for Sunday dinner, or to discuss a problem at the cantina. Time and again, Katy thanked her lucky stars for Miguel, knowing that without his timely intervention in her behalf, she would have been forced to prostitute herself to any man who could meet Herrera’s price.

  She could see the Herrera cantina from her bedroom window on the second floor, and she daily thanked God that she was not locked in one of the rooms upstairs. As time passed, she learned that Frank took care of running the cantina. He handled the customers, kept the girls in line, and occasionally dealt poker at one of the tables. Miguel, bound to a chair, kept the receipts, balanced the books, ordered supplies, and paid the bills.

  Miguel was a kind and generous man. He allowed Katy to use the bedroom that adjoined his so she could have a place to call her own. It was a lovely room. The housekeeper told Katy it had once belonged to Miguel’s mother. Frank had a room at the opposite end of the hall, but he rarely spent the night at the fortress, preferring to stay at the cantina. He had a room there, and a variety of girls to warm his bed.

  And so the days passed, and they were not unpleasant. The only thing that bothered Katy was that Miguel insisted she share his bed, even though it was impossible for him to possess her. Still, he was a man; a man tormented by desires. A man whose mind longed for the release his body could no longer provide. There were nights when he could not keep from touching Katy, nights when his hands gently caressed her body while his mouth rained kisses on her face and neck and breasts until, torn by a need he could not satisfy, he gruffly sent her to her own room.

  Sometimes, in the small hours of the morning, Katy heard him sobbing. It was an awful thing, to hear a man cry. Sometimes Miguel cursed the fate that had made him an impotent cripple. Once, she heard him beg God for death.

  That night, Katy tiptoed quietly into Miguel’s room and took him in her arms, comforting him as she would a child. She spoke to him in soft whispers, assuring him that it took more than the ability to copulate to make a man a man. She praised him lavishly for his kindness, for his ability to make her appreciate the beauty of Shakespeare and Homer, for the knowledge he had imparted to her, for his ability to make her laugh, for his unselfish concern for others that had saved her from a life of shame.

  Miguel had been horribly embarrassed at first, humiliated because a woman had seen his tears. But Katy’s quiet words and her obvious affection for him acted like a soothing balm to his troubled spirit. He found co
mfort in her arms, and the sweet words and gentle tears that were sincere and unfeigned. That night, a warm bond of love was forged between them. Never again did he send her away.

  And suddenly life was good again. Miguel needed her. And, in a curious way, she needed him. She did not love Miguel as she had loved Iron Wing. She would never love like that again. But Miguel gave meaning to her life. Often, Katy gave the cook the day off and prepared Miguel’s meals herself. She planned indoor picnics, and lavish candlelit dinners. She spent hours in the kitchen, learning to prepare foreign dishes to surprise him. She took care of his personal needs, bathing him, dressing him, until Anna and Alfaro had little to occupy their time.

  Katy rarely left the house because it depressed her to go outside and see the high stone walls and the guards who patrolled them. No one was permitted in or out of the gates without first being screened by one of the guards.

  But for the most part, Katy was content. The house was beautiful, comfortable. She had everything she could wish for, and if she suddenly had a craving for a particular food or a new dress or a book, she had only to mention it and the item appeared in her room as if by magic. Miguel was very generous, and he plied Katy with gifts of jewelry and costly gowns of silk and satin. Katy had brought joy into his dreary existence and he never tired of buying her presents, of seeing the appreciation in her eyes. She knew he was trying to tell her how much she meant to him, and his gestures of affection were warmly received. Sometimes Katy thought it a bit foolish to dress in silks and satin when she never left the fortress, but it pleased Miguel to see her adorned like a queen, and she would have done anything to please him.

  It was only sometimes, when Alfaro played the guitar and sang the haunting Spanish love songs so dear to the Mexican heart, that Katy felt her loss. Iron Wing. Her heart still ached for his touch, for the sight of his beloved face. If she closed her eyes, she could summon his image, so clear, so vital and alive, it was hard to believe he was really dead. Hard to believe she would never again know the fire of his touch, or hear his voice whisper her name.