Reluctant Enemies

by Vivian Vaughan

  They rode in silence until they were far enough away from the house for Priscilla to relax. Her plan had succeeded so far, but she knew she’d have an easier time in town if she could keep Pa’s mind off Will Radnor. As if in answer to a prayer, she recalled Mama’s strange behavior. Joaquín, that’s how to keep Pa from thinking about Will.

  “Why was Mama so worried about Joaquín attacking you, Pa? Joaquín loves us—in his own way.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Well, he certainly isn’t dangerous, not to us. I don’t understand Mama’s concern.”

  “Your mama’s concern is for you, sugar. And for me. Same as always.”

  His tone was gruff, and Priscilla turned to see him staring straight ahead, the brim of his Stetson adjusted against the glare of the rising sun, his jaws clenched. Coming after her own sleepless night, his petulance riled her.

  “Why do you always clam up when the discussion turns to Joaquín?”

  Silence.

  “If Nalin would tell who his real father is,” she persisted, “it would save all of us a lot of grief.”

  “And bring more to others,” Charlie growled.

  “Such as?”

  “Don’t get smart with me. Nalin has good reason for refusing to reveal who fathered Joaquín. She says it would bring the army down on Victorio’s Apaches. Your mama and I choose to believe her. And we’d appreciate it if you—”

  “The army? Why?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Priss. All I know for fact, is what turned up on my doorstep—a dear friend who was suffering from exposure. Nalin wanted to take her own life. Your mama nursed her back to health. We kept her with us until Joaquín was born.”

  “And Joaquín’s blue eyes…”

  “Joaquín’s blue eyes,” Charlie repeated as if by rote. His temper seemed to have eased off, and for some reason, he became uncustomarily talkative. She decided to take that as a good sign. If he worried over Joaquín, he wouldn’t be stewing over Will Radnor.

  “Those eyes aren’t the reason I feel responsible for the boy,” he admitted. “Nalin’s husband was a friend of mine; he was murdered more’n a year before Joaquín was born.”

  “I didn’t know that!”

  “Reckon I’ve always felt responsible. Jessie Laredo’s husband—”

  “Jessie Laredo had a husband?”

  “Man by the name of Suárez. That’s where she got the cantina and the shipping company. Inherited them from Rodrigo. He was a bad one, real bad. He’d steal, lie…” Pa’s words drifted off; then, as though they had rebounded from the high ridge of mountains that ringed the horizon, he continued, “Rodrigo Suárez sold whiskey and rifles to the Indians. That last shipment…to Victorio’s braves…He spiked the whiskey with arsenic. Jessie found out. She came to me, but I couldn’t get there in time. Nalin’s husband and six other braves were already dead.”

  “That wasn’t your fault.”

  “Maybe not. But they were my friends. Mine and your mama’s. I felt like I’d let ’em down. Still do.”

  “And you want to make up for it by helping Joaquín.”

  “Is that wrong?”

  “It’s admirable, Pa. But I wouldn’t have expected less from you.” She flicked the reins, encouraging their prized pair of Morgan harness horses, Martha Washington and Betsy Ross. “You’re a fair man, Pa. That’s why your hasty judgment about Will Radnor is so hard to understand.”

  “Humph!” He shifted angrily on the wagon seat. “He kissed you, didn’t he?”

  Priscilla hastened to change the subject again. “Why wasn’t I ever told all this?”

  “All what?”

  “About Nalin’s husband and the whiskey? About you and Jessie Laredo?”

  “Me and Jessie Laredo? Whoa, now, sugar.”

  “I mean, I didn’t know you were friends, Pa.” She frowned at him. “I mean…she isn’t exactly the type—”

  “I’m not sure I like your tone,” Pa barked. “When’d you start judgin’ folks?”

  The team approached a rockslide. Priscilla guided Martha and Betsy deftly around it. “I don’t know, Pa. Yesterday, I guess. Same time you did.”

  He didn’t like that, she could tell, but he kept his mouth shut, which, in itself was strange, for Pa always tried to get the last word. She must have really made him mad this time, and in light of what she planned to do in town, that wasn’t too smart. She decided it would be in her best interest to make up before they reached Santa Fé.

  “When did you meet Jessie, Pa?”

  “Way before I met your mama. Jessie and Rodrigo were already livin’ in Santa Fé when I got out here.”

  “When was that?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he responded, “Twenty-three years ago.”

  “From Texas?”

  “In a roundabout way.”

  “I thought you were born and raised in Texas, Pa. I thought that’s where we got our start with these Morgans, from your family. I thought Uncle Crockett and Uncle Sog—”

  “Whoa, there, sugar? Why all the questions?”

  Priscilla grimaced. Here she’d been trying to settle him down, and she’d riled him again. Since when did she have to handle her own pa with kid gloves? “I don’t know, Pa. Suddenly I feel sort of stupid, nineteen and not even knowing where my own father was born and raised.”

  “Humph!”

  “I wasn’t very inquisitive, was I?”

  “You were busy growin’ up. And your mama and I were busy getting this ranch started. It’s the present that counts. There’s no useful purpose in dredgin’ up the past.”

  “But it sounds exciting. Arsenic-laced whiskey. Murder and assault.”

  “You wouldn’t’ve called it exciting, if you’d been there. Besides, it’s the future that’s exciting. Defeating the Haskels. Enlarging Spanish Creek.”

  He reached over and patted her knee, a peace offering. She relaxed.

  “I’ll be turning it over to you one day, Jake.”

  His voice was thick. Priscilla smiled at his uncustomary show of emotion. She knew Pa was proud of her. She could always tell when she pleased him. But he’d never put it into words.

  Then they arrived in Santa Fé, and Priscilla, too, put the past out of mind. Getting a rope on the present promised to be chore enough.

  “Cain’t let you see that half-breed, Charlie,” Newt Haskel, the sheriff, replied to Charlie’s request to see Joaquín. “That young lawyer left orders not to let anyone in.”

  “He didn’t mean me, Newt.”

  “He never said nothin’ about you bein’ special, Charlie. I got my orders, you know. You’ll have to carry yourself up his way and git permission, ’fore I’ll let you in.”

  Pa was fuming. Priscilla could practically see steam billowing from his nose. She figured he had it coming for being so bullheaded about Will. Now at least she wouldn’t have to concoct a story to get to see Will. She wasn’t good at concocting stories.

  She headed the team for the corner of San Francisco and Water Street, where the adobe offices of Faust & Haskel sat next to the offices of the Haskel Land Grant Company. But Pa’s mind wasn’t on the Haskels today, Priscilla discovered.

  “Remember what I told you, Miss Priss,” he growled when she drew rein.

  “Pa, don’t call me that. Especially not…in town.”

  “Humph! Avery, run get that greenhorn lawyer.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Priscilla repeated.

  “All right,” Charlie barked. “But you remember your promise. Steer clear of that damned Yankee.”

  “I told you not to worry, Pa.”

  “Not to worry? You think you can come into town smelling like your mama’s rose garden and I don’t know what you’re up to?”

  She stared at him, abashed.

  “I thought it was your mama wearing that perfume. Didn’t realize it was you till we were too far from the house to turn back. Make sure you mind me about that boy.”

  Priscilla s
topped listening halfway through the lecture, for Will had come to the door. He stood there, staring at her, his gaze intense, unreadable. She couldn’t keep her eyes off his lips. She flushed, recalling his kiss, the tender, gentle, exciting part. Why was it so hard to recall the other—the bitter, fierce, angry part? Her parents must be right. They always were. This man was no good.

  But when he smiled, she smiled. Then, while she was trying to decide how she could get him alone to apologize, his expression turned to stone and he averted his gaze. She looked quickly away.

  A sickening sense of humiliation crept up her neck. She diverted her attention to the street ahead, which was no more than a haze of red earth. She heard Will approach the wagon, but he ignored her as if she weren’t even in town, much less sitting right in front of his very eyes. He stopped beside her, but spoke across her in curt tones.

  “You want to see my client?”

  “That’s what I said.” Charlie’s tone was equally curt.

  “Will you persuade him to talk to me?”

  “Maybe. If I can.”

  Priscilla’s heart pounded so loud it was downright embarrassing. She didn’t look at Will, but she could feel his breath blow against her cheek when he talked in explosive tones to her pa.

  “Damnit, McCain, I can’t defend the man if he won’t talk to me. Quicker we clear Joaquín, the quicker we can get down to business.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Permission granted.”

  “Then climb in back of this wagon and ride down there with us. You have to tell Newt to let me in.”

  Priscilla heard the exchange as from afar. She felt the heat that had crept up her neck burn her cheeks. She’d never been so embarrassed. The soft summer breeze blew the silk blouse against her skin, reminding her of her plans.

  Did he know? Could he tell she had dressed up just for him? How humiliating! She stared straight ahead, scarcely moving until Pa brought her attention back to the dusty street.

  “Whip up the team, Miss Pr—Whip ’em up, Jake. Let’s get on down to that jailhouse.”

  And whip up the team she did. Laying leather the length of their backs, she heed and hawed, and Martha Washington and Betsy Ross leapt to their traces. She’d see how these two surly men liked a taste of their own medicine.

  “Hold on there,” Pa warned.

  Ignoring him, Priscilla jerked the reins to the right, swerving to miss a wagon that had slowed in her path. From the corner of her eye, she saw Pa grip the seat with a white-knuckled hand and wished she could see Will Radnor’s face. Maybe she’d thrown him off by now.

  She laid the whip across the horses’ backs again, first Martha’s, then Betsy’s. “Giddy-up there!”

  “Watch that burro!” Charlie hollered. “Thunderation, Priscilla, slow down.”

  They arrived at the jail in a cloud of red dust. Priscilla jerked the reins with vigor, bringing the horses to a bone-jarring, stiff-legged halt. The wagon seat bounced beneath her.

  She wanted to turn around, but didn’t dare. She hoped she’d landed Will Radnor on his greenhorn hind-end. But before the dust had settled good, his insulting lilt cut through the mush in her brain.

  “Practicing to drive the stage, Miss McCain?”

  She locked her jaws against a retort.

  “Careful, Radnor,” Charlie growled. “A deal’s a deal.” He turned to Priscilla. “Park under that tree yonder.”

  “I’m not coming in, Pa. While you talk to Joaquín, I’ll go down to the Palacio and check on a contract for those steers.”

  “Well, park this rig and walk. Avery’ll drive me down there when I’m finished here. Avery!” he called. “Get that dadburnt walking stick from the bed and help me down off this seat.”

  When Red Avery came around the side to help Charlie disembark from the wagon, Priscilla allowed herself a brief glance to the boardwalk. No sign of Will Radnor.

  That greenhorn! Here she’d worn a fancy silk shirt and a stupid contraption underneath it and her mother’s perfume…

  Haggling with the government officials took her mind off Will Radnor. When she exited the Palace of the Governors, she was feeling somewhat less chagrined. One thing she could be glad of, she hadn’t found a chance to talk to that greenhorn; he certainly didn’t deserve an apology. Jessie Laredo hailed her from across the plaza.

  “¡Hola, Jake!” She fell in step with Priscilla. “The whole town’s talking about the way you handled that runaway team.”

  “Runaway team?” Priscilla studied Jessie with renewed interest, recalling Pa’s story. Jessie certainly didn’t look like a widow—or dress like one. From what Pa said, she must be at least Mama’s age, but she still looked and dressed like a girl, a slightly disreputable girl, of the sort men liked to ogle—unruly black curls, flashing black eyes, breasts that bulged above the low cut of her white blouse.

  Jessie’s familiarity surprised Priscilla. She’d always been friendly, but Priscilla couldn’t recall ever really talking with the woman, not alone, much less having Jessie initiate a conversation.

  Yet, Priscilla was pleased. A woman like Jessie could answer any question an unschooled girl like herself might have.

  Jessie linked arms with Priscilla, drawing her at a leisurely gait around the plaza. “That Will Radnor’s some kind of man.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “He’s renting a room from me. Above the cantina.”

  “Really?” Priscilla strove to sound uninterested. As tempting as confiding in Jessie might be, she could never do it.

  “He certainly is a fine specimen of a man. He’s single, you know, and smart, and…”

  “Stop, Miss Laredo.”

  “Jessie, please. Everyone calls me Jessie.”

  “Jessie, you’ll have to find someone else to harness up with that greenhorn.”

  “¿Si?” Jessie patted Priscilla’s arm. “A lovely blouse. And the lace camisole—just the right touch.”

  “The right touch?”

  “Seductive, but not brazen.”

  Priscilla felt herself blush. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stopped in the path. Jessie stopped, too. “I have to go get Pa. Good-day—”

  “Charlie’s still at the jail, chica. I just came from there. He and Newt are discussing those road agents that handsome Will Radnor dispatched for you.”

  “With my rifle,” Priscilla retorted.

  “Now, Jake, you’ll have to soften your attitude just a bit. Not much, he might like strong women—”

  “Jessie, I have to go, really.”

  “Priscilla…Sí, we must call you Priscilla from now on. You have plenty of time, chica.”

  “Time?”

  Jessie winked. “For a little rendezvous, ¿por qué no?”

  Priscilla blinked. Surely, she’d misunderstood. “I have to get Pa.”

  “I’ll let you know when Charlie’s ready, chica. Why don’t you walk down to the river, cool off in the shade of those nice piñon trees? Unless you’d like to come into the cantina. I have to get back to work.”

  The cantina? Priscilla could see Pa’s reaction to that. “I, uh, I shouldn’t. The river sounds nice.”

  Jessie squeezed her arm. “Walk on down there, then, and let your senses cool off. And chica, when you’re chasing a man, don’t be so obvious.”

  Priscilla’s heart skipped. “Chasing…?”

  Jessie winked. “The runaway team. You didn’t really want to throw Will Radnor into a pothole on his sentaderas, did you?”

  Priscilla wasn’t sure what a sentaderas was, but since Jessie had been right about everything else, she probably knew what to call his hind-end, too.

  “It was that obvious?”

  Jessie nodded.

  “Do you think he knew?”

  “No sé. I don’t know him that well. But he’s old enough—and handsome enough—to have had women chasing him before.”

  “Chasing him?”

  “There’s nothing wrong wi
th chasing a man, chica. But you must go about it the right way. You could try pouting…or flirting? Flirting always gets them. What about Red Avery?”

  “What about him?”

  “You could use him to make Will jealous.”

  “Jessie. I…I think you’re right. I need to walk along the river and cool off. That’s all.” She disengaged herself from Jessie’s hold. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll try not to get carried away again.”

  “Oh, no, chica. It’s all right to get carried away; just don’t let him catch on…” Jessie winked. “…until you’ve snared him.”

  Priscilla took the alley leading from Water Street to the river and came upon a peaceful oasis. The Río Santa Fé flowed in lazy fashion through the width of town. Piñon trees lined its banks. Peaceful. Yes, Jessie was right. She inhaled the naturally perfumed air and wondered quite suddenly why anyone needed bottled scents.

  She mustn’t let Will get the best of her again. Not that he would have a chance. Lost in thought, she strolled down the riverbank until she’d left the buildings behind. Presently she came upon a patch of sunflowers that looked like they’d been created from pure gold, highlighted as they were by a shaft of sunlight.

  The sunflower heads were huge this year, a good foot in diameter. Picking one she attached it to the trunk of a piñon tree, with its stem twined around the bark. Counting off fifty paces, she drew a pistol and began to fire at the petals.

  Shooting targets was such a common pastime, Priscilla really didn’t have to think about it. Her mind drifted to Will Radnor, to his thick brown hair.

  She hit a petal. “He loves me.”

  To his lean, angular face.

  She hit a second petal. “He loves me not.”

  To his soft, sensuous lips. She hit the third petal. “He loves me.”

  She aimed at a fourth petal, but before she could pull the trigger, a bullet ripped into it.

  “She loves me not.”

  Embarrassment swept over Priscilla in a heated rush, leaving her so weak, she feared she might crumble to the ground. She gripped the pistol tighter, hoping to still, or at least conceal, her trembling. Without turning to look at Will, she aimed at the next petal, fired, and hit it. “She hates him.”