“No,” Refugio said, the single word cutting like a honed sword through the babble of voices as Charro and his father tried to refute Don Esteban's statement and the governor attempted to restore order. “No,” he went on in a quieter tone as the voices began to die away. “Pilar Sandoval y Serna has traveled under my protection, it's true, and my behavior toward her has not always been the most honorable, but this much I swear: I never meant to cause her harm. I would like nothing so much as to have her with me, beside me, all my days. It is my most ardent wish to make her my wife.”
Silence descended as the men turned toward Pilar. The governor, his tones clipped, spoke first. “Is this true?”
Was it? Pilar didn't know, nor could she bring herself to trust that it might be so. The reason was the emeralds. It was not their value, the wealth they represented, that mattered; quite suddenly that seemed not to count at all. The important thing was that Refugio had not told her about them. He had kept the knowledge from her, allowing her to think she had no way to live, denying her the freedom from want and care that they represented. If he had betrayed her by keeping them to himself, then what else in the long list of charges Don Esteban had made might not also be true?
Had Refugio kept her with him from the beginning merely to bring dishonor on her stepfather? Could he have made love to her, accepted her offer of herself merely for the sake of the added shame to his old enemy? Had he kept her with him, not because he had begun to care, as she had dared hope, but rather because it had suited his schemes of vengeance?
And yet even if it was true, she had only herself to blame. Had she not offered him just such a bargain that night in the patio garden? She had not meant it to go so far. She had thought the embarrassment to Don Esteban would be no more than a few hour's duration, a day at the most, until she could be left with her aunt. Still, the principle was the same. She did not, then, have grounds for complaint.
But she did have reason to put an end to being used. She could do it now, this moment. She clasped her hands together in front of her and drew a deep breath.
“Wait,” Refugio said, his voice softly urgent. “There are more reasons than you know, and more pledges.”
Charro, standing no more than an arm's length away, turned toward her also. “Let her speak,” he said. “She has that right.”
Pilar looked from one man to the other. Charro's face was open and calm, with a steady light in his blue eyes in Refugio's features there was remorse, hope and despair in equal measure, and a hundred other things she did not understand. His thinking was too convoluted, his feelings too complex, for her to meet him easily on common ground. The effort at this moment was too painful. It seemed that the best thing to be done for him — for them all — was to deny that there had ever been anything approaching intimacy between Refugio and herself.
When she spoke, her voice was clear, and edged with the anger that gave her courage. “Refugio, Carranza has been of great service to me, and I am grateful. But if he intended more, then he failed to tell me. I am very sorry. I have been previously honored by a request for my hand from Señor Miguel Huerta.”
“You mean to marry him?” the governor asked, his voice sharp.
Pilar looked at Charro, gazing into his wide eyes. Still, she was aware of the abortive movement Refugio made as he started to take a step after her, then restrained himself. “Yes,” she answered, “I do.”
Charro suddenly smiled. He moved to her side, putting his arm about her shoulders, drawing her close against him, away from Refugio. “Ah, querida,” he whispered, “I will be a good husband.”
The governor cleared his throat and straightened the edge of the foolscap near his elbow. “Yes. That seems to dispose of that. May we now continue?”
“Precisely,” Don Esteban snapped.
The governor gave the man a glance of annoyance before turning once more toward Refugio. “It appears, Señor Carranza, that you did indeed abduct Señorita. Sandoval — whether at her request or for your own purpose is beside the point. The escapade itself seems to indicate that acting outside the law in this manner was not unknown to you.”
Refugio was silent as the governor paused. It appeared that his mind was elsewhere, or that if he had any defense to make, he had lost interest in presenting it.
“It is plain then,” the governor went on, “that I cannot absolve you of the charges made against you out of hand. It's also true that the fact that you abducted the lady does not prove that you are El Leon. Therefore, I have no cause to hold you.”
A ragged cheer went up from the men gathered around, the members of the band and Vicente, and also Señor Huerta's charros. Don Esteban cursed and pounded the table, making the governor's papers scatter.
“Quiet,” the governor rapped out, straightening his papers once more. “That will be enough. This matter is not settled.”
“What do you mean?” Señor Huerta asked.
The governor ignored him, speaking to Refugio. “While I cannot hold you, señor, neither can I, in all conscience, ignore the possibility that there may be some truth in the accusations against you. My only recourse seems to be to send to Spain for a description of this bandit, El Leon.”
“This is an outrage,” Don Esteban shouted. “I demand that you place this man under arrest.”
“Do you, señor?” the governor said, rising to his feet. “And would you also like to remain here in custody in San Antonio until word arrives from Spain on this matter? Just in case Refugio de Carranza would like to bring charges of slander against you if the answer is in his favor?”
“You would not dare!”
“Would I not?” The governor looked down on the don from his superior height. “I would remind you that I am the supreme authority north of the Rio Grande.”
“For the interim only. I have friends who can see to it you never receive official appointment!”
“I hope they may, Don Esteban,” the governor replied, tight-lipped with rage, “since I want nothing more than to leave here and return to Spain!” The governor swung from the fuming grandee. “You have all heard my decision. I extend my deepest appreciation for your prompt response to my summons, and now I bid you good day.”
They were dismissed, and they were not sorry to go. There was much shouting, much riding in circles and general celebration on the way back to the hacienda. The ruling of the governor was felt to be a victory of sorts. The request to Spain for information must go, laboriously, southward across Sonora, and along the twisting trails to Mexico City, then from there to Vera Cruz and across the ocean to Spain. It was always possible that it would be lost somewhere along the way, or else that, on being received in Spain, it would be shuffled onto the desk of some minor official and forgotten. Failing that, it seemed possible that the description of El Leon, even if it finally made its way back to New Spain after a year and a half or even two, might be so vague that it would be difficult to apply it with any certainty.
Of course, it was true that most of the country people between Seville and Cordoba knew, and many town people guessed, that Refugio Carranza was El Leon. However, Spanish officialdom in Madrid might not be aware of it, or else would find it difficult to prove.
Whatever might come of it all, for the moment the threat Don Esteban represented had been reduced to less than nothing. Refugio was free. They were all safe and on their way to good food and a warm bed, and there was going to be a wedding. So they whooped and they laughed and cracked jokes in their joy. The only ones who were silent were Pilar and Refugio, and the prospective groom.
Señora Huerta, once the hacienda was reached, greeted the news of the coming nuptials with something less than delight.
“Is this the truth, my son?” she asked, cradling Charro's face between her two hands.
“Yes, madre.”
“And you will be happy and remain with us here?”
“Yes, madre.”
She gazed into his eyes a long moment before she gave a slow nod. “It is wel
l, then. If there is to be a wedding, we must begin to make ready.”
“There is no hurry,” Pilar protested from where she stood to one side.
The older woman turned on her. “Is there reason to delay?”
“None at all,” her son answered for Pilar, “the sooner, the better.”
“You agree?” Señora Huerta asked Pilar with lifted brows.
What else was there to say? She summoned a smile, echoing in a whisper, “The sooner, the better.” They began the following morning.
Charro's mother came to Pilar's room with the maid Benita trailing behind her. In the maid's arms was a pile of gowns for evening in pale blue, cream, and yellow, also one of white embroidered with tiny blue flowers. They were the bridal gowns that had been used by members of the señora's family, her own gown and that of her daughter, Charro's sister, who had married the summer before and moved with her new husband to a home below the Rio Grande. There were also one or two other gowns belonging to Charro's sister which she had left behind as too youthful in style for a married woman. Pilar must try them all on. When she had made her choice for a wedding gown, and also for other occasions, Benita would alter them to fit.
As she spoke, the older woman gestured toward the curtained bed, indicating, that the maid should lay out the gowns upon it. The señora then walked to the narrow double doors that opened onto the upper balcony. She pulled them shut, closing off the view, then moved away to take a seat beside the large armoire against the wall opposite the foot of the bed. She folded her hands, waiting to see that her wishes were carried out.
It made no great difference to Pilar what she wore; still, she did her best to appear cooperative and to show her appreciation. The gown that had belonged to the señora was far too short for her use. The ones belonging to Charro's sister were too large in the waist, but fitted well elsewhere. After some discussion the white with the blue flowers was pronounced by the señora as suitable for the ceremony. It would be taken up first, with the others to follow.
Pilar stood still with her arms held stiffly out beside her while Benita advanced upon her with needle and thread. Pins were scarce in the Tejas country, it appeared; the maid would use basting stitches to take up the seams that needed alteration.
The girl had nimble fingers. Señora Huerta had time for only one or two questions about Pilar's family and her convent schooling before the girl finished one seam, then moved around to begin on another. She drew the silk and cotton material tight, so that it constricted Pilar's waist, then plunged the needle into it. Pilar felt a sudden excruciating sting in her side. She yelped and jerked away from the girl.
“A thousand pardons, señorita,” the Indian girl said, but there was no regret in her dark, red-rimmed eyes. Pilar, meeting her gaze, recognized jealousy mingled with resentment on Benita's broad face. The girl was in love with Charro; she was forever doing some small something for him, dusting his hat for the sake of holding it, bringing him water or some special tidbit from the kitchen. Pilar was suddenly contrite, for she realized she had not considered what her unexpected announcement might mean to anyone except herself.
Señora Huerta rose to her feet. “Clumsy girl,” she said in anger. “You have caused a spot of blood on the gown. Finish what you are doing, quickly now. Then go and soak out the stain.”
Pilar did not flinch as the girl approached her once more with the needle. It had been a small act of revenge, that stab, one intended to attract attention. It had succeeded.
The incident was not repeated. As Pilar stood and allowed herself to be sewn into the gown she would wear for her wedding, it seemed that it was her future that was being stitched up, and that she might never be able to breathe freely again.
Pilar was not the only, one who noticed Benita's distress over the wedding. Doña Luisa brought, up the subject when she joined Pilar later in the morning. “You seemed to have destroyed the little maid's dream world,” the widow said to her as she wandered out onto the balcony nibbling a piece of candy. “I just saw her scouring the table in the kitchen and using tears for soap.”
Pilar agreed as she stepped out onto the balcony behind her. “I feel terrible about her.”
“If I may say so, you don't look much happier than Benita.” The other woman's gaze was shrewd in its appraisal.
“I'm trying to catch my breath. Everything is happening so fast.”
“Yes, that is it, I'm sure. And you are not at all worried about Refugio.”
Pilar moved to the balcony railing. Over her shoulder she said, “Why should I be?”
“He made you a public proposal of marriage and you refused him. Aren't you curious to know how he accepted that affront?”
“He had his purpose for making it; I had mine for refusing. He is very good at deciphering the reasons people do things. I'm sure he understood.”
“Understanding and accepting are two different things. But I wonder if you don't misjudge Refugio? He may have a purpose for doing most things, yes, but the fact that his brain functions extremely well doesn't mean that he is incapable of feeling. He is an extraordinary man. I would think carefully before I sent him away.”
“Would you?” Pilar said with a great show of indifference.
“I would, though I would probably choose to marry Charro just the same, as you are doing.”
“Why would you say that?”
“He has the better prospects at the moment.”
“You are forgetting the emeralds, aren't you? I'm sure Enrique told you about them.”
Doña Luisa laughed. “So he did, how could I forget? It must be Enrique's good influence.”
Pilar turned to face the other woman, with her back against the balcony railing. “You admit it?”
“Oh, yes. Isn't it amusing?”
Pilar frowned. “You aren't just-playing with Enrique, are you?”
“He is not a man for that kind of thing,” the other woman said with a wry smile. “Oh, he's droll and funny and tolerant beyond most, but he has high standards and a quick temper. He keeps these standards for himself as well as for me. I find that endearing.”
“I see,” Pilar said slowly.
Doña Luisa laughed. “I don't suppose you do, but it doesn't matter since I am happy.”
“What of your husband's estate? Will you go back to claim it?”
“No!” The widow shuddered, adding, “No, not if the saints are kind. I never want to set foot on a ship or a horse again.”
“It's strange that you need never have left New Orleans, that you could have remained without harm from Don Esteban.”
“Strange, yes, but some things are meant to be.”
Pilar gave the other woman a long look. “But what of the money?”
“Enrique will see to it. He doesn't mind travel, and he will have the right as my husband to handle my affairs.”
“Your husband! But what of—” Pilar stopped, unwilling to put something that had only been a nebulous dread in her mind into words.
“Refugio?” The widow gave a comfortable laugh. “He was kind on the ship. He saw how frightened I was of being alone, and how hurt at having been married to a man who only wanted to get an heir on my body while clinging to his mulatto mistress. Later, he ceased to be so kind. He had a reason, of course; he wanted me to turn to Enrique. He is diabolical, but also wise.”
Was it possible, Pilar wondered, that Refugio had wanted her to turn to Charro? Did he feel a compulsion to establish all his discarded women with someone else? She did not really think it could be true, but the chance was strong enough that she might be able to use it to help her forget.
“You will remain here, then?”
“Oh, yes, in spite of there being no fabled cities of gold. I suspected that was a trick, you know; I'm not stupid. But I also wanted to see if Refugio was right, if I was stronger inside than I knew. No one was more surprised than I to find it's so. The Apaches terrify me still, but I will be all right with Enrique beside me. When my husband's estate is
settled, he and I will find a place where we can grow cattle and babies. I will become fat, and Enrique will not care.”
“And you will be content? You will never miss the court at Madrid?”
“Of course I shall miss it! And sometimes I will stamp my feet and cry for my old friends and the parties and fine clothes, and wonder why I ever buried myself in this wilderness. But I will always know that Enrique must live far away from Spain and the past. He will understand, and make me laugh, and it will pass.”
“You expect much of him.”
“Yes, and he will give me more. That's the way of it.”
“Charro will also be a good husband,” Pilar said, lifting her chin.
“Yes, probably. But will you make a good wife for him?”
That was, of course, the question. Pilar considered it with care after the other woman had gone. She would try, but would it be enough? It was late evening when Pilar heard the first strains of the guitar. She wanted to shut out the sound but she could not. The melody was the old Andalusian love song Refugio had played that night in Seville, and again on the ship. The sound went on and on, bringing images of fountains and lemon trees shining in the moonlight, and of other things she would as soon forget. And when she thought she could stand it no longer, he began to sing, the words and the tones soft and rich and incredibly poignant.
She moved from her bedchamber through the narrow doors and out onto the balcony. She could not see him among the scattered shadows of the courtyard below. Still, his voice rose in endless refrain.
There was no one else about for the moment. Charro had ridden out with his father to inspect a herd of cattle the Indian charros were gathering, and the two had not yet returned. Vicente, Enrique, and Baltasar had gone to witness a cockfight to be held at the nearest group of Indian jacales. The señora was overseeing the preparations for the evening meal, harrying the servants in the lower regions of a connecting side building. Doña Luisa was completing her toilette for the evening.
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