by Braun, Matt;
Whether or not Hank Laird had got religion was a moot question. But Angela suspected he had developed a deep and abiding fear of a vengeful God. Clearly, his prayers were a way of appeasing that God, prompted by some dismal horror that Trudy would also be taken from him. For a man who had always treated God with a sort of hairy-chested bravado —not unlike a wrestling match between equals—it indicated a new awareness, even acceptance, of his own mortality. Yet Angela thought it typically Irish—almost barbaric—like some primitive cave dweller offering burnt sacrifice to pagan idols. In her eyes, it had less to do with atonement for past wrongs than an attempt to avert any further personal tragedy. Still, under whatever circumstances, she was pleased by his trips to the chapel, and gratified that it had tempered, to a modest degree, his attitude toward her. Of course, in certain matters, it simply made her life all the more difficult. Once having acknowledged the fearsome nature of his God, the thought of losing Trudy constantly preyed on Laird’s mind. He would resort to any measure, however harsh, to hold on to the girl. Today’s threat was in earnest, and upon reflection Angela realized she had placed herself in an untenable position. Unless she reversed herself, and accomplished it with a certain finesse, she would jeopardize any future efforts on Trudy’s behalf. Her husband was entirely capable of making her the scapegoat where their daughter was concerned.
At length she sighed, her features rigid, and met his look. “Henry, you’re wrong and selfish, and we both know it. But if I were to let the matter drop ... what then?”
“Then we’ll call it a standoff. She stays here with you and that’s the end of it.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Trudy will blame me for spoiling her trip to Wichita, and you get everything just the way you want it.”
“No, I’d not do that.” Laird took a thoughtful sip on his whiskey, then shrugged. “What the hell, I’ll take the blame myself. Tell her it’s simply no place for a young girl.”
“How very charitable of you.”
“Don’t mention it. After all, I’m not the sort to come between mother and daughter.”
Angela studied him a moment, her face masked by anger. Then her eyes went dark and vengeful. “Henry, I never thought I’d tell you this—and I’m ashamed you could make me say it—but you really are a bastard.”
“Aye, that I am. And proud of it.”
Laird raised his glass and saluted her. “You’re right about something else too. She’s her father’s daughter, and that’s a bloody fact. Damned if it’s not.”
Chapter 15
The dancers ringed a huge bonfire. Flames leaped skyward, distorting their shadows, as the music increased in tempo and the beat of their steps grew faster and faster on the hard-packed earth. The crowd edged closer, gathered around them in a loose circle, laughing and shouting, urging them onward with cries of “Ole! Ole!” The betrothed couple responded to the chant, certain it was for their benefit. Yet the center of attention, watched closely by the crowd, was another couple on the opposite side of the fire. All eyes were fixed on the patron’s daughter and her partner.
Trudy advanced to meet Roberto, smiling and coquettish, gracefully performing the stylistic moves of the jota. Her eyes flashed, brilliant in the firelight, and she turned her head, taunting him with the traditional look of innocence as they retreated from one another. Then they skipped sideways, moving in opposite directions, suddenly reversed themselves and came together an instant before repeating the steps. Her skirts were lifted high, displaying a delicate ankle, and Roberto laughed, softly clapping his hands in time to the music. He was lithe and muscular, incredibly nimble in motion, matching her grace with an almost fluid counterpoint that was at once sensual and boldly inviting. The musicos launched into rapid verse, again increasing the tempo, and the dancers began a series of intricate steps keyed to the words of the song. The onlookers burst into applause, enthralled by the wild gaiety, the excitement of raised skirts and bare legs. A moment later, with a flourish of guitars and a piercing note from the lone cornet, the jota ended to thunderous ovation.
The dancers froze, poised an instant on the last note. Then the girls dipped low, eyes downcast and skirts spread wide, and the men bowed, their arms outstretched, heads inclined in admiration. Roberto hovered over Trudy, bent at the waist, and his whisper was so faint his lips scarcely moved.
“I’ll go first ... take care.”
Her look betrayed nothing. When they rose and stepped back, Roberto nodded, his mouth set in a formal smile. “Gracias, senorita. I hope you will permit me another dance before the night ends.”
“Of course, Roberto. Perhaps a jarabe, eh? I always feel I do it better with such an accomplished partner.”
“You are too kind, senorita, and too modest.”
Trudy favored him with a smile, then turned and strolled away. The band struck up a zorita and Roberto immediately claimed one of the village girls as his partner. Several other girls followed him with their eyes, envious but ever hopeful he might choose them next time. A man of inordinate good looks, with the hawklike intensity of his father, he was by far the most popular young vaquero on Santa Guerra. Among the men, it was a standing joke that he had deflowered virgens beyond counting. Yet mothers wept and their daughters sulked whenever a baile passed without some acknowledgment, however slight, of his interest. As the eldest son of Ramon, Morado, segundo to the patron, he was considered most eligible indeed, and a prize catch for any girl. To families with marriageable daughters it was thought a great pity that he gave no indication of settling down. He seemed content instead to remain unattached, available to all.
Strolling through the crowd, Trudy kept one eye on the dancers, and Roberto. She paused here and there to chat, attentive to everyone, exchanging greetings with the warmth and affection Los Lerdenos had come to expect of her. Though the baile was in honor of the betrothed couple, her presence marked it as an event of special significance. Yet she was natural and unassuming, merely one of the people rather than the patron’s daughter. She wore a peasant’s blouse with a low-cut bodice, and a simple skirt, the dress common to women throughout the village. It endeared her to them all the more, and by its very simplicity was a token of tribute to her hosts and the betrothed couple.
The baile itself was a lavish affair by village standards. Only family and close friends had been invited, but there were upward of a hundred guests. They were gathered in a small clearing beside the creek, which was reserved for parties and festive occasions. A steer, donated by the patron, simmered over a pit of live coals, and on a long table, the women had arranged steaming platters of frijoles and came asado and other native dishes. For the men, there were jugs of aguardiente and tequila, and for the young people there was dancing. The musicians, seemingly inexhaustible, were kept fueled with liquor, and strains of all the traditional tunes filled the night. Around the bonfire, one dance swifly followed another, and the crowd cheered the young couples on with lusty approval.
A fandango ended, and Trudy, who was talking with the women at the serving table, saw Roberto detach himself from the dancers. Pleading thirst and promising to return, he joined a group of men at the edge of the crowd. There he took a pull on a jug of tequila, then casually drifted off, moving from one group to another. Aimlessly, in no apparent rush, he wandered ever farther from the bonfire, and finally disappeared into the trees upstream. If anyone noticed, it drew no comment. Men frequently stepped off into the darkness to relieve themselves.
Trudy waited several minutes, then excused herself and turned away from the serving table. The moment she turned she had the odd sensation of being watched. Her gaze swept the crowd, moved past the dancers to the opposite side of the fire, and suddenly halted. Luis Morado was staring straight at her, and as their eyes locked, his mouth curved in a sardonic smile. It was a look of disapproval mixed with sadness, and she knew he’d seen Roberto leave the party. For an instant, returning his stare, she wa
s struck by the paradox of two brothers so dissimilar in all things.
Within the last few years, it was as though Roberto and Luis had exchanged skins. Once the boy jester, Luis had matured into a responsible and very industrious man. At eighteen he was married, shortly to become a father, and so knowledgeable of horses and cows that it was only a matter of time until he was promoted to caporal. Yet Roberto, always the solemn one when they were children, apparently had no taste for responsibility. He was wild and reckless, willing to take risks that awed even the older vaqueros, and quite content to be considered the macho hombre of Santa Guerra. Trudy often wished it were the other way round, for if Roberto were more like Luis it would have eased her plans for the future. Then, too, she sometimes worried that Roberto was acting a role—for her sake—to avoid entanglements that would limit his freedom to come and go. On the other hand, it was a guise perfectly suited to their arrangement. Of all the people on the ranch, only Luis suspected, and she knew their secret was safe with him. While he disapproved and feared for the consequences, he. would never betray his brother—or her.
Trudy laughed and tossed her head. The gesture made Luis wince, and he looked away, unable to mask his concern. A moment later the crowd began calling for a special jarabe by the betrothed couple. People hurried forward, jabbering excitedly, shoving and jostling for a better position around the fire. Amidst the commotion, no one noticed that the patron’s daughter held her ground, allowing them to push past her. After the music started, she waited awhile longer, until someone shouted “Bravo!” and the crowd quickly took up the cry.
Then she turned and melted unseen into the trees.
She came to him in the dark, the sky like a dim opal flecked through with stars. He held out his arms and she ran the last few steps, throwing herself into his embrace. Her hands went behind his neck, pulling his mouth down, and she kissed him with a fierce, passionate urgency. His arms tightened, strong and demanding, and when at last they separated, her voice was breathless, warm and husky.
“Oh, Roberto mio, how I’ve missed you.”
His mustache gently brushed her cheek, and he kissed her. “It is the same for me, querida. I ache to hold you, and when we are apart there is no sleep.”
“I know.” She leaned against him, head buried in his chest. “It’s torture ... the waiting ... never really sure when I’ll see you again. Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy ... it hurts too much, Roberto ... not knowing.”
“Si , but we are together now. Let us be thankful that Maria and Tomaso had their baile tonight.”
“It’s not enough! I want to be with you every night.”
“Be happy with what we have, cara mia.”
“I won’t ... I can’t ... it grows more difficult ... impossible.”
“No sabe, little one. How more difficult?”
“I’m watched, questioned all the time. Everywhere I turn, there’s my mother—like a hawk!—always watching, watching.”
“Do you think she suspects?”
“I don’t know ... yes ... yes, she probably does. But I don’t care anymore, Roberto. I’m sick to death of her prying and her questions ... and always being watched.”
Her voice trailed off and he held her close, lightly stroking her hair. Each time they met she grew more wretched, and within the last few months a bittersweet quality had entered their relationship. The things he’d resigned himself to—the secrecy and stealth—were the very things she had never really accepted. A year ago, almost as though they were fated to become lovers, she had arranged a chance meeting and surrendered her maidenhead with joyful abandon. But even then, in that first flush of discovery, he’d known it couldn’t last. She was still a girl in many ways, spoiled and hopelessly romantic; yet he had seen her develop into a proud and spirited woman. For her, there were no halfway measures. It offended her dignity, somehow marred her sense of worth, to skulk and deceive. However much she loved him, the intrigue made her uncomfortable and increasingly unhappy. He thought it her only flaw, common to all Anglos, and often wished she were truly one of Los Lerdenos. It would have simplified life greatly had he not fallen in love with a gringa aristocrata.
“Que quieres?” He lifted her chin, kissed the top of her nose. “What is it you want ... tell me?”
She sighed, pressed her face to his hand. “I want to stop sneaking around and lying to everyone, especially to myself. Dios mio, Roberto, we have nothing to be ashamed of— nothing at all!”
“Others would most surely disagree. There are times, little one, when the truth cannot be told.”
“Como no?” she demanded. “Why not?”
“Be honest, now, would your mother approve?”
“No, of course not. But she certainly couldn’t stop us, so she could just learn to live with it.”
“Ah, and if that were so, would she then share our secret?”
“Keep quiet, you mean ... not tell my father?”
“Si, that is exactly what I mean.”
She eyed him in silence for a moment. “I think it would be better if I told him myself.”
“Mil Cristos! You’re not serious?”
“You forget”—she smiled, tweaked his mustache—”I have a way with men.”
“Aiiii caramba! We’re not talking of men, we’re talking of El Patron.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, I can handle him.”
Roberto looked at her in astonishment, shook his head. “Can you also teach eagles to scratch the earth like chickens?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Then ask yourself a question, querida. What would your father do if he knew you were here ... tonight ... with a greaser?”
“Por Dios!” she protested. “He doesn’t think of you that way. He doesn’t!”
“Perhaps,” Roberto said grimly. “But then again, perhaps I know your father better than you do.”
“You actually believe he would—?”
“Si, little one. I believe he would. You are his daughter— hija inocente del Patron!—and for him, that alone would be reason enough.”
“Oh god, Roberto, I couldn’t stand the thought of that.”
“It has little appeal to me either.”
“But if you’re right—”
“Accept it as a truth, cara mia.”
“—then that means we must go on the way we have been. There’s no other way, is there?”
“De seguro,” he assured her. “No way whatever.”
“Well, in that case, to hell with the whole damned world!”
Trudy laughed an indolent deep-throated laugh. She pressed her body against him, arms clutched about his neck, and hushed his reply with a soft kiss.
“Don’t say anything,” she whispered. “Not another word ... just make love to me ... make me forget.”
Roberto lowered her gently to the ground, and in a few moments they were naked. She snuggled close in his arms, felt an almost unbearable excitement as his hand caressed her breasts, teased her nipples erect. Her mouth found his, eagerly sought his tongue, then her hand grasped that hard questing part of him, fondled it lovingly until he was aroused and aching for her. His hand slid down her stomach, went lower still, tantalizing and elusive, until she arched to meet it and a tingling shock rippled through the core of dampness between her legs. She was ready for him, moist and yeilding, the moment he touched her. He moaned, trembling with need, and she pulled him onto her, accepted him slowly, felt him penetrate and probe tenderly. His arms went beneath her and she was lifted, pressed closer still, felt him growing inside her. Time lost measure and meaning, and within that single instant, she crossed a threshold far beyond the limits of her most vivid fantasies. Her legs tightened around him and his stroke quickened, thrusting faster and faster, ever deeper. She peaked, clamping him vise-like, and explosive little shudders wracked her body. Her nails clawed his back,
drawing blood, and when he burst inside her, hot jolting eruptions one after the other, her mouth opened in a gasping cry of agony.
“Ohhh Roberto! Tu amor, Roberto. Tu amor!”
Chapter 16
By late March the roundup was completed. Nearly 22,000 head had been gathered and driven to holding grounds around the ranch. Altogether there were ten herds, each comprised of something over two thousand cows, and their current market value exceeded $500,000.
The immediate problem was getting them to market. Between Santa Guerra Creek and the railhead in Kansas lay almost eight hundred miles of hard trail-driving. The herds would be started out a day apart, moving northward toward the Red River and Indian Territory. There they would connect with the Chisholm Trail, which followed a meandering course through the wilderness and eventually ended in Wichita. As yet, the major railroads had not laid track into Texas; since there were no branch lines with a connecting link, the ranchers had no choice but to trail their herds to Kansas. The drive took upward of three months, and along the way the drovers would encounter flooded rivers, hostile Indians, and the ever-present danger of stampede. It was unknown for a herd to arrive intact at the railhead. But the hazards were accepted as part of the trade, and any cattleman who lost less than ten percent on a drive considered himself fortunate indeed.
Hank Laird had never personally gone up the Chisholm Trail. Instead, he went by steamboat from New Orleans to St. Louis, then proceeded by train to Kansas, and met his herds at the railhead. He thought of himself as a businessman—cattle were merely the commodity in which he dealt— and he left trail-driving to those who were experienced at the game. Every spring he contracted with veteran trail bosses, offering them a generous share of the profits, and thereby insured their utmost concern for each cow bearing the brand. Unlike other cattlemen, who preferred to drive their own herds, he had narrowed the odds drastically. In the last five years, with nearly sixty thousand cows trailed to Kansas, he had averaged less than six percent loss every season. This year, given a firm market and nothing catastrophic along the way, he stood to clear better than $250,000.
