"Jiraldo and Rita will be in Santa Fe,” he said persuasively. "A bill to approve his land grant will be up before the second session of the legislature. And Grant and Libby are there now, house-hunting.”
Rosemary knocked her wineglass over and hurried to clean up the spreading purple stain. "What — why are they house-hunting?”
"Didn’t I tell you? Heard the news at Las Vegas yesterday. President Johnson has appointed Grant Territorial Associate Chief Justice. It’ll most likely be in this week’s Santa Fe New Mexican.”
“But Fort Sumner . . . who will take over his command?”
“The government is closing Fort Sumner and the reservation there. You seem nervous about our friend, my dear.” Had there once been something between her and Grant? Well, if there had been, Grant could only be disgusted by her now. “Grant will handle the transference well.”
She spread her hands, gesturing to the spilt wine. "I suppose I am a bit nervous these days. Perhaps you’re right, perhaps we should put in an appearance in Sante Fe.”
CHAPTER 25
Rosemary refused to stay in Santa Fe’s Exchange Hotel, in spite of Stephen’s angry demands. "’Tis no place for a boy Jamie’s age,” she told Stephen the first night they arrived in Santa Fe. From down the hallway at the monte tables came the drunken shouts of the gamblers who had hit a lucky streak or lost a fortune in sheep. From the richest to the poorest, all were caught up in the fascination of the exciting vice.
Occasionally the burst of gunfire could be heard from the plaza as a dispute was settled or a lady’s reputation preserved. Rosemary had noticed the town had grown considerably, owing largely to the great numbers of men mustered out of the military after the end of the Civil War. And most of these men seemed to come from Texas.
“Big, handsome vaqueros,” Rita called the cowboys who sported the huge Stetson hats and Colt .44 pistols at each hip.
Stephen told Rosemary to find a place if she wanted to live somewhere else other than the hotel, knowing full well that with the legislative session about to begin, there was not a room to be let, much less a house, in that small mountain outpost. Nevertheless, she set out to hunt the third morning in Santa Fe, taking Stephanie and Jamie with her.
First, she tried several private residences that fronted the plaza. She met with no success, but everywhere she went the men moved out of their way for her, tipped their sombreros, derbies, or Stetsons. At last she realized she was the only woman in the plaza whose face was not shielded by the rebozo.
The men, who had come into the Territory for various reasons — rumor of new gold and silver deposits, flight from the long arm of the law, or search for work at the growing number of cattle ranches — were all avid for the sight of a woman. And especially an Anglo woman. Even the sight of a child brought gentleness to the most hardened hearts.
Stephanie behaved like a little coquette. "Stephanie, you must not wave at every man that looks at you,” Rosemary told her daughter when an old man in a battered hat and long, white matted beard staggered out of the calabozo, from which he had just been released, and swept the child a parody of a courtly bow.
"But, mama, they like to look at me,” Stephanie said with an irresistible grin. And Rosemary thought it was so. With the red hair, and black, almond-shaped eyes, the child possessed a unique appearance that bordered on beauty. But it was more than that. Already, though she was only four, there was an aura of vitality, a spirited animation about her, that was almost tangible.
Jamie eyed his sister. "That’s because you’re different looking.” But there was no malice intended. While he continued to remain aloof from Rosemary despite her gentle attempts to win him back to her, she sensed the awe he held for his sister.
It took two more days of looking, but Rosemary finally chanced upon an observer-sergeant in the United States Signal Corps who had just accepted a job as Indian Agent for the San Carlos Reservation in Arizona. He had two rooms he rented, one above the other, in the rear of the Staab’s Store on the plaza, and he arranged for her to rent them before anyone else had the opportunity.
With that taken care of, Rosemary had only one purpose now . . . to talk with Grant Raffin. She had to be circumspect, she knew; she could not just appear at Libby’s door, asking for him. Curiously enough, it was Stephen who suggested they accompany Grant and Libby to a dinner party being held for the influential businessmen of the city and the new legislature.
"You mean for the Santa Fe Ring — The House,” she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.
Stephen paused in adjusting the stiff collar onto the boiled shirt and glared at her. "That’s something you’d best not mention.”
"Why not, Stephen?” she asked with a mocking smile. "Everyone knows about the Ring.”
He resumed his dressing, draping the huge gold chain across his flower-brocaded vest. "Then you should also know it’s the Ring that puts the clothes on your back.” He glanced at the off-the-shoulder dinner gown of lilac-colored satin with sprigs of violet linen flowers on the voluminous skirts. She did not miss the desire that lit the black eyes, and she turned away.
He came up behind her and took her shoulders. His walrus mustache tickled her bare shoulders. "Your gown, tis much better than the cheap calico — or smelly buckskins you wore, wouldn’t you say?”
She shrugged out of his grasp. "Are you suddenly taking an interest in my past, Stephen?” She found it peculiar he never asked about the three years she lived with the Indians. His unconcern piqued her, but she knew she should be only grateful he was not curious. She had learned the extent of his power with the assassination of the Territorial Auditor. If he ever found out about Lario, about Stephanie, she knew his rage would know no limits.
"You’ve been in one Indian camp,” he answered, "you’ve been in them all. I have no interest in the dirty, stinking camps you lived in.”
She cast him a sidelong glance. She could not help herself. The temptation to put a dent in his smugness was overwhelming. "Nor the stinking men I slept with?”
"Nor the stinking men you slept with, my dear.” Stephen was one step ahead of her, as usual. "For once I pity the poor savage who took you to his bed. A lump of coal is more responsive.”
She thought of several replies she would have loved to snap back with, but she was treading on perilous ground. She picked up the long white evening gloves and ivory fan, asking lightly, "Was there any particular reason you wanted us to go with the Raffins tonight?”
Stephen smiled at her retreat. Obviously because, in his corrupted view, as a lady she would not liked to be reminded of her sexual degradation. "Grant’s sending Wayne off to a boys’ school in St. Louis. I wanted to know more about St. Mark’s. I be thinking it would be good for Jamie.”
She gasped and whirled around to him. "Jamie’s not old enough to go away yet.”
He raised his bushy brows. "He be two years older than Wayne.”
"You know what I meant. Jamie’s not as mature. Besides, Stephen, Jamie and I are just beginning to get acquainted with one another again. Please,” she begged. "He’s my son also.”
"Don’t be foolish. You’ll smother the boy with all the attention.” He picked up the new malachite walking cane and silk top hat which had put the fur trappers out of business when it replaced beaver hats. "Let’s go. We’re late.”
She and Stephen sat behind Grant and Libby in the surrey. Libby chattered on about the new governor’s private home, a pink adobe in the Barrio de Analco, one of the earliest settlements in the United States. The governor’s wife, whom Stephen wanted Rosemary to cultivate, had given a tea several days before, and Libby had attended. She could not extol enough about the walls that were covered with paintings by well-known American artists, the hand-painted window shades, and the small melodeon.
Stephen’s boredom was obvious as he openly yawned. Rosemary’s fingers played nervously with her fan. Across from her Grant looked uneasy, though several times she caught his veiled gaze on her before he looke
d away to the large adobe homes that irregularly walled the winding, cobblestone road.
The dinner seemed interminable to her. Indian boys dressed in white cotton camisas and calzones served silver trays arranged with pollo marengo and thick pork chops in Madeira wine sauce. The new governor, William Mitchell, made several lengthy speeches followed by as many toasts to the new administration.
At last it was time for the men to light up their favorite cigars and the women to retire from the room. The men rose from their chairs as the ladies passed by. Rosemary let the fan slip from her hand as she passed Grant’s chair. "I have to see you,” she whispered below the hum of conversation as he bent to retrieve the fan. "In half an hour — in the courtyard.”
She endured the chatter of the women for the next thirty minutes, responding with polite answers to the questions directed her way. Then she quietly made her excuses to the hostess at a time when the wives were occupied in a debate over the merits of beeswax candles versus tallow candles, telling the governor’s wife, "It must have been the amount of food I ate, Mrs. Mitchell. It was so delicious, I dinna stop. Do you mind if I step outside for a breath of air?”
Rosemary knew that as soon as she left the room she would probably be the topic of discussion — poor Mrs. Rhodes, what horrors she must have endured! But she did not care. Her waiting had reached its end. Lario. The name sang through her blood as she slipped through the veranda doors which, like all the rooms in a Mexican home, opened onto the central courtyard.
The spring night was shadowy with a cloud-streaked moon. Carefully she avoided the macetas, the large pots containing hibiscus plants, and made her way across the flagstones to the Moorish fountain. "Grant?” she called softly. But there came only the splash of the water cascading over the gray stones. A hand touched her shoulder, and she gasped and whirled.
"If I’m found out here alone with you, it’ll ruin my career,” Grant said. But he took her in his arms and pulled her to him. "I haven’t stopped thinking of you. Not since that day in the barn.”
She leaned back, placing her hands against his chest to separate them. "You’d better forget, Grant. There was nothing to that day but a business arrangement.”
Yet she knew that was not true. No matter what her intention had been, the incident had changed Grant — had changed her. She had no illusions about their relationship that day, but she was honest enough to admit that the common act had transformed them, the circumstances, their thoughts into something that was essentially nonphysical, which lasted beyond the act.
"I want to know about Lario. Please,” she said in desperation as a hardness gripped Grant’s countenance. "Where is he?” She clutched frantically at the lapels of Grant’s gray frock coat. "He is still alive, isn’t he?”
"Forget him, Rosemary.” He grasped her wrists in a painful hold. "The best I could do was to get him transferred to the Santa Rita Copper Mines.”
She gasped. She knew the mines were in the far southwest quadrant of the New Mexico Territory — where hell opened up on earth some said. "For how long?” she asked in a whisper.
"It doesn’t matter. If he was released in two months or twenty years, he wouldn’t be the same. Whatever kind of man he was is gone now. Accept it and forget him.”
"No! I won’t accept it. I’ll wait for him to return, Grant. Twenty years if need be!”
"If he ever returns, Rosemary, it’ll be to kill me — and you.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER 26
Wild Cat Camp
Cambria, New Mexico Territory July, 1873
Cautiously the ten-year-old climbed the slats of the corral. At the corral’s far side the steely blue mustang pawed at the dirt nervously. Its small ears lay flat against its bony head. Its nostrils dilated at the scent of the human. The stallion had been ridden only once, and he was alert and wary, ready to defend himself as viciously as he would defend his sovereignty over his band of mares against another intruding stallion.
The girl, who looked more like a boy dressed as she was in her brother’s overalls with her strawberry braids tucked up under the floppy felt hat, perched on the corral’s top slat and watched the mustang prance about the corral in agitation.
It was a beautiful horse, she thought, with gleaming round quarters and bunched muscles at the chest. Although Cody Strahan had ridden it the day before, the stallion was not yet ready for any other human to try its back. Which was all the more reason why Stephanie Rhodes meant to ride the animal.
She figured by now her mother would have already discovered she was not in her room studying. No matter, by the time she had finished riding Malcreado and made the two hours’ journey back to the Castle maybe her mother would be getting just worried enough to forget her anger. And her father — maybe he would come out of his office, his gruff face for once beaming with pride, and say, "That’s my daughter!”
She slid down off the slat and began walking toward the horse. "Hello there, my fancy steed,” she said softly, gently, imitating Cody’s manner as she approached Malcreado. "You and me are going to be the best of friends.”
The stallion snorted and danced off to one side, but she continued to talk as she steadily walked toward him. "Folks’ll say, 'My, aren’t they a handsome pair,’ when they see us. And that bratty Wayne Raffin will have to make good his wager,” she added triumphantly.
She was almost there now, within grasping distance of the gray-blue matted mane. Slowly her hand came out. The horse’s eyes rolled. With no warning it reared; its sharp hooves pawed the air. To her it looked like some great beast. She began to back away. Malcreado came down only to rear again as it advanced on her.
"No!” she cried out and turned to run. Her boot heel caught in a dirt clod, and she went sprawling. Above her the horse hooves came down, and she rolled to one side, screaming. On all fours now she scrambled through the flurrying dust for the corral’s far side. But Malcreado pursued her, its one intention to destroy the intruding enemy. When the sharp hooves came flailing up this time, she knew there was no hope for her to reach the safety of the corral’s slats.
Then there came the sharp ricocheting retort of gunfire, and Stephanie felt the impact of the horse’s boulderlike weight. The breath whooshed from her. Blackness charged with streaks of reds and blues inundated her, though she was dimly aware of the heavy weight being removed, of hands that ran along her legs, her arms, her rib cage, feeling, moving her wrists and ankles.
"Yyowl!” she grimaced, as the fingers poked at her eyelids. "You’re hurting me!”
"I’d like to take a razorstrap to you!” Cody grunted. But his hands were gentle as he lifted her and carried her toward the one-room cabin of native stone that served as a bunkhouse for the cowpunchers of the Wild Cat Camp. "What in hell’s hot furnace did you think you were doing, you little pisser!”
"None of your business!” she mumbled as he eased her onto the narrow, rawhide slung bunk. Her eyes flew open. "Malcreado — what happened to — ?”
Cody’s expression went flat. "Dead,” he said and turned away. He crossed to a shelf that held tins of coffee, flour, and sugar along with jars and bottles. "I take it your maw doesn’t know you’re here?”
The tears that stung her eyes prevented her from answering. The beautiful animal was dead, and it was her fault. "She’s gonna string you up by your braids when she finds out,” Cody went on.
"You . . . you won’t tell her, will you?”
He paused from searching through the bottles and cocked a brow at the child. "When you’re hobbling around tomorrow morning, she’s gonna suspect something. Why’d you do it, kid?”
She shook her head, her lips folded tightly. Already she hurt, feeling like she had been trampled by a herd of stampeding buffalo.
Cody came back to her carrying a bottle of Dr. Walker’s Horse Liniment. "I see,” he said. He sat down beside her. "Shuck your clothes. We’ll see what can be done.”
She stiffened. "Ain’t going to.”
Cody sighed. "Lo
ok, kid, I gotta get on to those mossbacks. It’s either the liniment or hole up in bed for a week.”
Wiping her dirty nose across her sleeve, she weighed the alternative and concluded that the burden of her mother’s disapproval was the worse of the two.
With unladylike groans she painfully dropped her britches and shrugged out of the faded red cotton shirt. She stretched out on her stomach, resting her head on folded arms.
As Cody worked at the muscles at the back of her calves and thighs and massaged her back and her arms, the liniment penetrated into her body, warming her. Drowsily she thought of Wayne and how she would yet make him acknowledge she was as capable as any boy, though why she should care she could not imagine.
Finally the pleasure of Cody’s sure hands massaging away the aches lulled her into sleep. But it wasn’t Wayne she dreamed about.
CHAPTER 27
Philadelphia
May, 1880
Stephanie posed in front of the gilt-framed mirror and readjusted the ruchings of her brown and tan plaid silk dress over her bustle, then tilted the beribboned and beflowered bonnet at a saucy angle over her right brow.
"Of course, I’ve kissed him,” she told the three girls who sat on her bed and watched her in breathless silence. "Every summer when I go back, Wayne’s there to meet me at the Las Vegas depot and take me home to Cambria.”
She saw the three pairs of wide eyes in the mirror, waiting. "And . . . and we kiss. We kiss a lot.”
"Stephanie!” Lottie breathed in horrified delight. Her plump hand crept up to rest at her neck. "What would your father say?”
She reached for the daguerreotype stuck in the rim of the oval mirror. Her brother had given her the picture the previous summer before she had returned to Mrs. Goddard’s Women’s Academy for the fall session. She held the well-worn cardboard frame between her fingers, but there was no need to look at the picture. She could envision it with her eyes closed. The two young men, Jamie sitting on the university’s low wall, his face wistful, his dark looks a perfect foil for Wayne’s fairness — and Wayne lounging next to her brother, all his father’s arrogance evident in his own brooding good looks.
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