Reluctant Enemies

by Vivian Vaughan

  “I know. I…I couldn’t stop myself.”

  “That’s what I mean. We’re in love. And it’s…it should be wonderful. As soon as Pa’s safe, you’ll see. This whole ranch will ring with laughter and joy.”

  He couldn’t burst her bubble. It was all she had to keep her mind off her father, and off her mother, and off a dozen other things she didn’t even know to worry about right now. He tried to lighten the mood. “So, what are your plans for me, cowboy? You intend to turn me into another Charlie McCain?”

  “Will!” He could tell he’d gotten her dander up, as Charlie would’ve said. She rose, but instead of stomping off—Priscilla wasn’t one to leave the scene of an argument—she came and knelt beside his chair, taking his hands in hers.

  “I don’t want another Charlie McCain. I already have one. I want a William Penn Radnor IV.”

  That gave him pause.

  She laughed. “Sounds pretty highfalutin for a girl who doesn’t even wear dresses.”

  “Sure does.” But what he thought was, Sounds too damned good.

  “I’ll make the handle fit,” she promised.

  Lordy, she was wonderful. Delightful. He could see them now, weathering every storm, side by side. With Priscilla to keep their spirits afloat, there was nothing they couldn’t do.

  But he couldn’t see them together, not in the future. So he did what he usually did to check his guilty conscience, he kissed her.

  Once, tenderly, almost chastely, except for a couple of exchanges of tongues and a wet and glorious finale. “Time to hit the sack, cowboy. Tomorrow promises to be a full day.”

  That reminded her of Charlie, and he spent a few minutes reassuring her. He didn’t know what to expect any more than she did, but whatever came, they’d tackle it.

  Together.

  Which was what they were doing now, he thought, seated around the kitchen table like they all liked each other. “That’s what I said, all right,” Will responded to Crockett’s earlier statement. “Any ideas how we can go about it and not get our necks stretched?”

  “Same way we did Joaquín, greenhorn.”

  Everyone in the room stared at Priscilla. “That stunt won’t work twice,” Joaquín objected. “Newt may be stupid, but Oscar sure as hell isn’t.”

  Jessie agreed. “It’ll take more diversion than me teaching Newt to read.”

  “Than you doing what?” Bart questioned.

  “Poor Newt,” she mused, “Oscar’s always giving him a hard time about not knowing how to read. He’s been trying to get me to teach him, but on the sly. He didn’t want Oscar finding out. I used it against him.”

  “Sounds to me like it was for a good cause, Jess.” Bart’s voice was soft. Will noticed how the old outlaw looked at Jessie, with a lot of pride and something else. And Jessie was grinning like a schoolgirl. Their relationship wasn’t quite as hot as his and Priscilla’s, but from the looks of things, it was getting there.

  Will glanced around the kitchen. Kate was in the corner grinding corn for masa. “We’ll have to come up with a good reason for going in,” he said. “A real good reason.”

  No one had a ready answer.

  “As I see it, our problem is twofold, getting Charlie out of jail is the first step; the second step is clearing both Charlie and Joaquín.”

  “That last’ll be harder’n springin’ him from jail,” Crockett predicted. “Judge Sanders is the hangin’est judge this side of the Mississip.”

  “There’re other judges in the territory,” Will said. “I’ll find one.”

  “One who isn’t in the Haskels’ pocket,” Priscilla added.

  “One who isn’t beholden to the Haskels,” Will agreed. “That’ll be…”

  A sudden hush fell over the room. Will’s words drifted off. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end; damn, they’d left the place unguarded for mere minutes, and—

  He followed the awed stares of those across the table. Joaquín rose. Priscilla followed him.

  Kate rushed toward the door, drying her hands on her apron. “Nalin!”

  Will stood. He saw the old woman, although he wouldn’t have recognized her without Kate’s calling her by name. She had entered the kitchen as silently as a ghost and stood in the doorway, her face a withered mask. Long, gray-streaked hair flew in tangles around her leathery face and shoulders. Her calico shift was dirty and caked with red mud. It hung limp and tattered from her bony frame. Kate was the first to reach her.

  “Come in.” Kate took her arm. “Come in, Nalin. We thought you were in Mexico with Victorio.”

  Will watched the drama unfold. Joaquín took one of his mother’s arms, Kate took the other. They edged her gently toward the chair Priscilla had vacated.

  Will moved to the door; he peered outside, toward the Haskel’s camp. All was still. Bart came up behind him.

  “What’s going on?”

  “She’s Joaquín’s mother. When we left the ranchería, she and Victorio’s Mimbreños were headed for Mexico.”

  “Looks like she didn’t make it.”

  Behind them, Nalin began to talk. She spoke in Spanish, with lapses into Apache, intermixed with a keening that set Will’s teeth on edge.

  “We are no more, The People. We are no more.”

  Joaquín squatted beside her chair, holding her by a frail arm. “Victorio…”

  “He is dead. Murdered at Tres Castillos.”

  The silence in the room became palpable.

  “José Colorado?” Joaquín asked.

  “Your brother escaped, and maybe a dozen more. Many others are prisoners of the Nakaiyes.”

  “Where are they, those who escaped?” Kate’s voice was controlled now, respectful. Will thought of the wickiup liner, of the reverence in which Kate McCain was held by Victorio’s people.

  “Scattered to the mountains,” the old woman replied. “The People are no more.” Her words gave way to another round of keening. Will glanced from one person to the next. Kate was on her knees beside Nalin. Priscilla had moved across the table and sat staring at the old woman’s masklike face.

  “My hair…” Priscilla touched her head. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “It didn’t help.”

  “Sí, niña,” Nalin responded. “I prayed for the Great Spirit to bring me here.”

  When Will saw tears roll down Priscilla’s cheeks, he could stand it no longer. He crossed the room, squatted on his heels beside her chair, and took her hands in his.

  “You walked here, Mamá?” Joaquín asked. “Alone?”

  Nalin turned her attention to her son. Lifting a leathery hand she placed it on top of his head, as if bestowing a benediction. “The Great Spirit answered my prayer. He did not let me die before I saw you again, hijo.”

  Again silence hung in the air, heavy as the scent of piñon on a damp day. When Crockett cleared his throat, Will blinked back his own tears. If ever a person needed a show of dedication from a parent, it was Joaquín.

  “Our chief is dead. The People are no more. I am free to reveal the truth.”

  The group gasped as if in unison. Kate recovered first.

  “We’ll leave you and Joaquín—”

  “No. You must all hear and understand. I have kept silent to protect The People. Now they are gone. I can tell my son the truth.” She turned her full attention on Joaquín. “I know you have suffered, hijo. I could have relieved your suffering many years ago. But the truth would have brought ruin to The People, for your father was a powerful man.”

  Will’s grip tightened on Priscilla’s hand. Nalin spat the word powerful with venom.

  “The name of your father is Oran Darnell.”

  The name stunned Will. Surely he had misheard.

  “He is an old man now, if he is still alive. When he came to this territory he was a powerful man in the government of the white eyes.”

  No, Will hadn’t misheard. Senator Oran Darnell. Father of the present Senator Darnell, he thought. The present senator wasn’t much older than Will.<
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  “I remember,” Kate was saying. “I remember when he was here. A group of senators came to the territory on a hunting excursion. They stayed up at the old Burgwin site. It was after Priscilla was born and I was so sick. You were here, taking care of me.”

  Nalin nodded. “Sí, my friend.”

  Priscilla had jumped to her feet. Will rose, too, wondering what to expect. Her gaze was trained on Joaquín. She seemed poised to leap across the table.

  Nalin spoke again. “Do you understand, hijo? My lips were sealed.”

  Joaquín’s face revealed no emotion. He was, after all, half Apache and had taken his novitiate with the young men in Victorio’s band. “It is over, Mamá.”

  “I don’t understand,” Priscilla cried. “All these years I thought…we thought…”

  Nalin persisted, focusing her dwindling energy on her son. “Our warriors would not have allowed my honor to go unavenged. There would have been bloodshed; the white eyes were searching for any reason to remove us from our lands. If I had told—”

  “Charlie knows?” Joaquín questioned.

  Priscilla gaped at him from across the table. Will could feel her anguish, could see it on her face. Her hands gripped into fists at her side. It was like a death, he thought. All these years she had believed Joaquín was her brother; only days before he had called her, Sister; now in the space of a heartbeat, it had all been taken away from her—from both of them.

  “Charlie does not know,” Nalin was saying. “Charlie McCain is an honorable man and a true friend of the cihéne. He would have avenged my honor, same as any of our brave warriors. No one would have been safe. We would have had death and destruction.”

  “What have we now?” Joaquín no longer concealed his bitterness. “When have we ever had anything but death and destruction from the white eyes?”

  Nalin peered earnestly into Joaquín’s face with what must surely be her last ounce of strength. “Please, hijo, say you understand.”

  Joaquín rose. “It is a difficult thing, understanding.” For the first time he looked directly at Priscilla. Will winced at the sight of the man’s blue eyes. He knew it was even more unsettling for Priscilla. He rested a hand, lightly, on her back.

  “One man cannot understand the actions of another,” Joaquín was saying, “any more than one man can avenge the death of another.” After a long moment, he dropped his eyes to his mother. Bending, he kissed her wrinkled forehead. “You did what you had to do, Mamá. Now I will take you home.”

  “We have no home, hijo.”

  “Then we must go and build one. We do not belong here.”

  “Yes!” Priscilla cried. “You do!” She reached across the table, grasping for Joaquín, but he remained stoically beyond her reach.

  Kate took his arm. “Priscilla’s right, Joaquín. This is your home. Nothing has changed. Nothing…Except…” Her words trailed off, her sentence unfinished. Everyone in the room with the possible exception of Bart Ellisor, knew the end of that sentence…except Charlie McCain is not your father and Spanish Creek is not your birthright.

  Will pulled Priscilla against his chest. Turning her toward him, he saw her bloodless face, the desperate way her gaze pulled away, reaching for Joaquín.

  “The important thing now,” Kate was saying, “is to get your mother to bed, Joaquín. She is in no condition to take one more step anywhere. I’ll fix a room. Jessie, would you heat the pozole? Priscilla, come with me. Bring clean sheets for the front room.”

  Priscilla didn’t move. She continued to stare helplessly at Joaquín.

  Kate helped Nalin toward the hallway. “Come, Priscilla. Get the sheets.”

  Priscilla stood stock-still. Will didn’t even feel her breathing. With the jerky movements of a marionette, Joaquín turned his attention from his mother back to Priscilla. They stared at each other long, hard. Will had no trouble reading the pain on Joaquín’s face.

  “Joaquín, I…” Priscilla’s voice faltered. Joaquín turned abruptly toward the door.

  “Joaquín, wait…” She moved away from Will, toward Joaquín, but the door had already slammed.

  “You can talk to him later.” Will turned her toward the hallway. “Your mother needs you.”

  “But Joaquín needs—”

  “To be alone, I suspect. Run help your mother. I’ll see about him.”

  Outside he found Joaquín standing in the shadowed eaves, rolling a smoke. He glared stoically at Will with those startling blue eyes. Again the mere sight of them struck Will like a slap to the face. They hadn’t come from Charlie, after all. He imagined Joaquín examining those eyes in a looking glass, year after year, swearing that they proved Charlie was his father. How would Joaquín feel now when he looked into a looking glass and faced the fact that the man he had wanted to call him son, never would; that the ranch he had coveted for so many years would never be his?

  “I have an idea, Joaquín. If it works we might be able to clear your name and free Charlie with one and the same stroke.”

  Joaquín scowled.

  “I’ll need your help. It’ll take all hands and the cook for this one.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Sit tight.” His sweeping glance took in Crockett and Bart Ellisor, who stood apart at the other end of the veranda. “I’ll be right back.”

  By the time Will reached the bedroom, Kate had settled Nalin into a chair. She and Priscilla were busy making the bed. Kate glanced up at his approach; her glare stopped him in the threshold.

  “We’ll need privacy, Mr. Radnor.”

  “I’ll give it to you. But first, I have an idea that might help us free Charlie.”

  That got Kate’s attention, but even after he outlined his plan, she remained hesitant. “If it’ll help Charlie and clear Joaquín, too…I don’t know what Charlie would do. I can’t…”

  “Mama, Will’s right. Pa would want us to do whatever it takes.”

  “But deeding the canyon…”

  “It’s just a piece of land, Mama.” She smiled at Will. That distracting smile, he thought. Those damnable blue eyes. “Until they took Pa, I didn’t realize the truth—it isn’t the land that’s important, it’s the people who live on it.”

  “You’re right, darling, but…”

  “All I’m asking, Mrs. McCain, is for permission to draw up the papers. I’ll take them to Charlie; he doesn’t have to sign them.”

  “You think deeding the canyon to Joaquín will convince a judge that he didn’t steal the horses?”

  “An honest judge,” Priscilla barked, reminding Will of the way Charlie responded when his dander was up. “Which Judge Sanders certainly isn’t.”

  “There has to be an honest judge somewhere in this territory. I’ll scour the countryside until—”

  “You won’t have to do that, Mr. Radnor. Charlie swears by Judge Anson, up at Chimayo.”

  “Judge Anson?”

  She nodded. “But I don’t understand how deeding the canyon will help. Joaquín is accused of stealing horses, not land.”

  “I can draw up the papers to read ‘land and livestock.’ It shouldn’t be necessary. Those horses are as native to that piece of property as elk or bighorn sheep. But I’ll add ‘livestock,’ if you like.”

  “Do that, Mr. Radnor.” Kate turned her attention to the bed. Will watched her purse her lips. When she looked back at him, it was to inquire, “How will you get it to Charlie?”

  “I’m an attorney. They can’t deny me the right to see the prisoner.”

  “Those people can do anything they please.”

  “Santa Fé’s a growing city,” Will argued. “The Haskels know they have to keep up the appearance of being law-abiding officials. If they refuse, I’ll threaten them with going to Governor Wallace. But that shouldn’t be necessary, Oscar Haskel won’t have anything to lose this time, not that he knows about.”

  Jessie came in with a bowl of pozole. Kate looked squarely at Will for the first time. Her expression wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t frigid, either
. “Draw up your papers, Mr. Radnor. Take them to Charlie. Now, you’ll have to excuse us.”

  Priscilla followed him down the hall.

  “What else do you have up your sleeve, Will?”

  Stopping in the dimly lit hall, he considered how best to tell her.

  “I like your plan to clear Joaquín, but how will it help us free Pa from those blasted Haskels?”

  Will ducked his head. He knew that convincing Priscilla to stay behind would likely be the hardest part of the job. He hedged by ignoring her use of us. “It’ll get me inside the jail. Bart can help work out the details.”

  Priscilla stepped nose to nose with him. “When do we leave?”

  He shook his head, brushing the tips of their noses. “This one’s for the boys, Miss Priss. You sit tight—”

  She held her ground. Priscilla usually did. “He’s my Pa; I’m in on this one, greenhorn. I’m as good a shot as any man.”

  “I’ll grant you that…with one possible exception.” He took her face in his hands, felt her tensed muscles. “But you’re not any man.”

  “Then consider me one of the boys.” She grinned. “That’ll help you forget I’m a woman.”

  Their gazes delved; his brain ran amok. “I thought you knew by now…I’ve given up…that hopeless task.” Speaking, he nudged her backwards, across the hall, through an open door, into a room, privacy.

  “But since you don’t seem to remember, how ’bout I show you again.” Backing her against a wall, he kissed her, deep and sensuously, while his hands showed her in no uncertain terms what he thought of her feminine attributes, one by one.

  Lifting his lips, he studied her in the dim light. “Had enough?”

  But her arms were around his neck and she pulled his lips back to hers. “Never, greenhorn. I’ll never get enough of you.”

  Nor he of her, he thought, weary of the whole charade. Easing back, he changed the subject.

  “Are you all right…about Joaquín?”

  She closed her eyes a minute. He felt her tremble. “I’m sad for everybody—mostly, for him, I guess. I like your idea of deeding him the canyon. Pa will, too. Now he’ll have something from Spanish Creek.”

  “And something from The People.”

  “Hum, the horses. I hope it makes a difference. I keep remembering how he called me his sister. It made me feel…proud. Now it isn’t true. And I feel so lonely. I think he does, too.”