by Henke, Shirl
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Nick sat up on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. He was Don Anselmo's heir now, even if he was a nameless bastard the hacendado had never known existed. He felt nothing for the man who had sired him. At least that was what he had believed, but Luce told him he was only fooling himself.
Maybe he was. During his years growing up he had been shuffled from whorehouse to tawdry whorehouse as his mother's looks and price declined. Lottie had never talked about his old man. Hell, he had thought she didn't know who his father was. Nick assumed he was just another down-and-out farmer or tradesman like the average run of her customers. Around the time he had turned six or seven she had occasionally looked at him strangely—never with affection, for she did not consider him anything but a burden. Perhaps that was when he first began to resemble Don Anselmo. A few years later she had packed him off to Hezakiah Benson, who assured him that he was the spawn of Satan.
Life had been hellishly hard, but he had been so busy just surviving he had little chance to ruminate on his paternity. The very idea that he was the son of a noble house would have seemed laughable before he met Luce. Once their bargain had been struck, his brother had made him intimately acquainted with every detail of their ancestry, which went back all the way to fifteenth century Andalusia in Spain.
“What a joke on the old son of a bitch,” he murmured to himself, looking around the big room filled with fine furniture and paintings. “Luce has turned into a hired killer who loves pulque and putas. And I end up with Gran Sangre and Mercedes.”
Mercedes. He could picture her sleeping behind that heavy oak door, her dark gold hair spread like spilled doubloons across the white pillowcase. Just thinking about her made his body grow rigid with lust and ache. She was a fine lady with high morals and great pride, the sort of woman he had never dreamed of possessing.
There had been rich women from good families who had thrown themselves at him in the past. Hell, by the time he was seventeen he had learned that his looks were exceptional. All sorts of women fancied him and the aura of danger that his profession lent him only intensified the fascination. But he had always understood that such casual liaisons were mere diversions for bored rich ladies, who would not acknowledge that they even knew him if they passed on the street. He had grown to prefer the company of whores who were at least open and honest about their relationship with him.
But now he had a wife. Your brother's wife. “No, dammit, she's mine now,” he growled into the silence. She had grown into a woman of spirit and, doubtless, had reason to despise Luce's touch. From the way his brother had described their brief time together, Nick could understand her unwillingness to share his bed. Yet when they had first laid eyes on each other, Nick had sensed a magnetic pull. She had responded to him, he was certain of it, and Nicholas Fortune was no novice at such matters. He wanted to win her over slowly, to woo and seduce her so she would come to him eagerly, desiring his touch. But he knew the role he was playing all too well. He knew Lucero Alvarado all too well. Patience was not one of his virtues, least of all where women were concerned.
Nick smiled grimly and inhaled the cigarette smoke. Luce liked his women with fire, but he also liked them cheap and lusty. And no woman, regardless of her station, would dare refuse his advances without risking his wrath. Nick had ridden with him for over six months and seen his casual brutality toward women, which was not unusual among soldiers. He had done some pretty ugly things himself, but never rape. On several occasions he'd come close to blows with Luce to keep him from taking an unwilling woman.
Luce had laughed and given in, humoring his “big brother” because it amused him to do so. But here at Gran Sangre, Nick knew that everyone expected the to claim his husbandly rights. Not to do so would be completely out of character for Don Lucero. Mercedes herself knew she had made an impossible request. Luce would never let his own wife defy him. If he acceded to her wishes, people might become suspicious. But if he acted as Lucero, would he forever forfeit the chance for happiness with his beautiful wife?
The soft hum of insects and the melodic call of a night bird gave him no answer. He would have to make a decision soon. Muttering a curse, he ground out his cigarette and stretched out on the big lonely bed.
* * * *
Nick slept late the next morning, a luxury his hard life on the trail as a contre-guerrilla had not afforded him. When he walked into the dining room, Baltazar bowed officiously. Seeing the food had been taken from the sideboard and Mercedes was not in the room, he asked, “Has my wife broken her fast yet?”
“Doña Mercedes always arises at six, sir. She rides, then eats her breakfast in the courtyard. She is working on accounts this morning. Shall I summon her?”
“No, don't disturb her now.”
“Shall I tell Angelina to prepare your breakfast, ?”
“Yes, and be certain the steak is seared and bloody,” he reminded the old steward, knowing Luce's penchant for exceedingly rare meat, a taste he himself had acquired by force of necessity.
“But of course, ,” Baltazar replied, then vanished into the kitchen.
There had been so much to learn—and unlearn—while Luce had been coaching him. He was ambidextrous, a trait passed on from his mother and a handy skill for a professional soldier; but Luce was right-handed, so he had practiced doing everything with only his right hand. He loved French food in mellow cream sauces, but his Mexican half brother detested all things foreign and preferred the burning hot tang of chilies. Since Luce, too, had taken up smoking, there at least was one thing he had decided not to change. They were both skilled horsemen and when he had admired Luce's splendid Andalusian his brother had carelessly gifted him with Peltre, saying it would be remarked upon if he did not ride home on the big gray.
He was contemplating what to do first that day when the kitchen door opened behind him and a voluptuous woman with waist-length black hair and bold striking features emerged carrying a tray laden with a silver coffee service. The smoldering look in her dark eyes and the provocative sway of her hips as she set down her load would have indicated that they had been lovers even if he did not recognize the woman Luce had described in such detail.
“Cenci,” he said coolly, appraising her with the hard, off-handed expression he had learned from watching Luce.
“Have you missed me, darling?” She wet her plump rosy lips and let her eyes undress him, moving down the length of his body from the open-collared white lawn shirt to his polished riding boots, then back up to his face. “They have marked you,” she said in a husky voice, touching the scar on his cheek.
“A rebel saber grazed me.”
“Every day seemed like a year waiting for you to return,” she whispered, lowering her hand and letting it rest against his heart, feeling it beat through the thin fabric of his shirt.
He threw back his head and laughed. “I'll just bet you repined all alone in your bed from the day I left.”
She moved closer to him, letting her breasts brush back and forth against his chest until her nipples stood out in dark, nubby points beneath the thin cotton of her low-cut camisa. “I have spent little time in bed,” she said petulantly. “Your pale little stick of a wife has worked me like a peon. Look.”
She held up her hands for his inspection. They were red and work-roughened but so were his wife's. There the resemblance ended, for Innocencia's were large and heavy-boned as was her whole frame. She was supple and curvaceous to the point of lushness, but in a few years her body would go to fat unlike the aristocratic slenderness of Mercedes’ elegant fine-boned limbs. How could Luce have preferred this coarse slut to a beauty such as his wife?
Luce had cautioned him about his old mistress, saying if anyone could detect the masquerade, it would be her; for he had taken her as his lover when he was only eighteen years old. She knew every nuance of his body, how he made love, even how he tossed in his sleep. His brother had spent a great deal more time describing Innocencia than he had Mercedes, b
ut seeing her now, Nick was not inclined to resume the old relationship.
Her busy hands quickly glided up his chest and around his neck as she fused her body against his from breasts to thighs, rotating her pelvis in blatant invitation. Her fingers dug into his scalp and she pulled his head to hers for a fierce kiss. Her mouth was wide and mobile as she opened it and plunged her tongue against the barricade of his lips, then withdrew with a pout.
“You no longer find me desirable after all your fancy French women in the capital? I can do anything they can—and more, my stallion—much, much more! Touch these and tell me you do not remember.”
She seized his hands and placed them around her heavy breasts, cupping them as the large dark nipples protruded against her camisa. She arched her hips against his and whispered obscenities in his ear, moaning low.
He thrust her away none too gently as Luce would have done with a woman who no longer held his interest. “I'll decide when—and if—I want you, Cenci. And this isn't the time or the place.”
“Surely you aren't afraid of what the high-and-mighty patrona will say? When she came here as a trembling bride, you ignored her. You took me on the floor of your father's library!”
“That was a long time ago. I've come home to perform my duty. To give Gran Sangre an heir—a legitimate heir.”
“Ha! She is probably barren. You will soon tire of her and come back to me...” She slipped his restraining hands from her arms and quickly lifted her arms to his shoulders, wriggling her body against his. “Remember how it was, my great stallion?”
Mercedes stood transfixed in the doorway, having overheard only the last fragments of their conversation. She watched that brazen slut undulate her ample charms against Lucero's body and heard his cruel words. I've come home to perform my duty. A killing rage seized her and a red haze glazed her vision as she stepped into the room, her hands curled into claws ready to rip his mistress from her faithless husband's embrace. But before she could reach them Lucero seized Innocencia's wrists and pushed her away from him with a low oath.
“I told you no, dammit! I'm no longer the boy who found you irresistible.”
Neither of them saw Mercedes enter the room. Innocencia stomped her foot and hissed at him, “You will be sorry for this. I am the one who taught you everything about making love.”
“But I am the patrona of Gran Sangre and you are still a scullery maid,” Mercedes said in a sharp voice.
Nicholas turned in surprise and observed the flushed cheeks and unholy glow in his wife's eyes as she advanced on them. The little cat is jealous. A strange surge of elation filled him as he raised one eyebrow mockingly and watched the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. She was dressed in a simple blue linen gown with a high collar of white lace at her throat. The cut was demure but the way it softly molded to her gentle curves had quite the opposite effect. He grinned rakishly at her, letting her know that he was aware of her jealousy.
Lucero's mistress smothered a gasp of outrage and stepped forward. “You cannot let her punish me, Don Lucero. You are the patrón.”
“So I am, Cenci,” he said evenly, his eyes never leaving the patrona as he placed a restraining hand on Innocencia's arm. “Return to your work. I'm certain Angelina has much to keep you busy.”
She gave him a look of wounded outrage, then whirled around, sending her full red skirts flying, revealing well-turned ankles as she huffed off.
“I only hope she won't poison me when she serves my breakfast,” he said dryly.
Mercedes watched him as he crossed the room to stand in front of her. She could feel the male heat emanating from him and fought the urge to back up a step. Instead, she met his sardonic gaze with a boldness she did not feel. “There was a time when you would've sent me away. You've changed, Lucero.”
He shrugged carelessly, reaching up to touch a stray curl that rested on her breast. “Perhaps. But you are the patrona and she's only a servant.”
“But she is your mistress.”
He heard the icy accusation in her voice and knew his instinct about Lucero's story was right. His brother had hurt Mercedes by flaunting his affair with a household servant in front of his bride. “She was my mistress. My tastes have grown a bit more sophisticated over the years. Now I prefer blondes.” He was rewarded by the deepening flush that stained her cheeks. No woman was immune to flattery.
The tension thickened between them as they stood with eyes locked. Her fists were clenched tightly at her sides, partially concealed in the folds of her gown. His fingers continued to play idly with her hair. Their breaths mingled, warm and swift.
“Here is your breakfast, . I fixed—oh, a thousand pardons.” Angelina stood in the doorway holding a heavy serving tray heaped with steaming food.
Nicholas turned to her with a grin. “That's all right, Angelina. I'm starved for one of your famous steaks.”
“I fear you'll find the meat tough and stringy. We had to butcher an old steer yesterday. It was all Hilario could run down.” Mercedes knew her voice was breathy and that she spoke too fast, but she injected a note of justifiable anger into her words.
“Alas, it is true, patrón. I have done the best I could with the steak. We have fine fresh peppers and tomatoes and Montezuma's spoons crisply baked to scoop up the salsa accompanying the meat.” She held up the basket filled with fresh tortillas.
Nicholas looked from the old cook, who was now busily placing dishes on the table, back to Mercedes. “Hilario told me about the livestock, but surely on a hacienda as vast as Gran Sangre there must be remnants of our herds.”
“I've already explained that the army appropriates what they will and the Juaristas steal what is left. There are pockets of cattle and horses scattered hither and yon, but precious few men to gather and tend them.”
Nicholas rubbed his jaw consideringly. “I know you've already eaten, but join me for coffee while we discuss what to do about the livestock and the shortage of men.” He pulled out a chair for her and his expression dared her to back down.
Warily she took a seat and Angelina poured them each a steaming cup of thick black coffee, then excused herself to return to the kitchen. When he picked up his cup and inhaled the fragrance, Mercedes said, “Coffee is getting scarcer every month. I'm told the fighting in the south has destroyed the current crop and disrupted shipping. It costs dearly and we can't afford to buy more when this runs out. I've ordered Angelina to cut it with chicory to make it last.”
He took a sip. “You should see the gray muck soldiers drink. This tastes wonderful.”
She studied him over the rim of her cup. “The war has changed you in many ways.”
He flashed her a smile. “Only wait and you'll see many more...for the better, I hope.”
What had possessed her to give him such an opening? The situation was growing altogether too intimate. She shifted the conversation back to the problems of running Gran Sangre.
“Hilario has only a dozen or so riders who are able-bodied enough to work the stock. We had over a hundred before you left.”
“I might be able to recruit some men in Hermosillo. There are always mercenaries down on their luck, looking for a way to make a few pesos.”
“We have no pesos to pay them with,” she reminded him, “unless we sell more of the Alvarado heirlooms.”
“To save Gran Sangre we may have to do that in time—but not just yet. I have accumulated a little gold over the past years. It's not much, but it's a start.”
“I can imagine how you managed to ‘accumulate’ your gold,” she said waspishly.
“No, my dear wife, I don't think you could possibly imagine at all...or that you'd want to,” he added grimly.
She studied the haunted look in his eyes thoughtfully. Then when the silence became awkward, she said, “I have seen rough-looking young men idling about the plaza and markets when I was in Hermosillo. Perhaps they would be willing to work for you. I think you should ride to the city today.”
His mood lighte
ned abruptly and he chuckled. “Ah, yes, you'd like that—for me to take off on a two-day ride to Hermosillo, leaving you to your solitary bed. Who knows, fortune might even smile on you. I might fall off my horse and break my neck along the way. The grave of a horseman is always open.”
She wrinkled her nose at the old cliché. “Don't be melodramatic. If all of Benito Juarez's rabble couldn't kill you, I doubt a ride to Hermosillo will do you in.”
He took her hand and placed a tingling kiss on the back of it. “Ah, such tender wifely concern.”
* * * *
Nicholas did not ride to the capital that day. Instead he had Hilario take him out to inventory what livestock was left scattered over the hacienda, leaving word for Mercedes that he expected to be gone for the better part of a week. He had found a legitimate excuse to grant her request for a reprieve.
The ride was long and grueling as they traveled through mountainous high desert, searching out well-hidden water sources, which would attract horses and cattle yet be unknown to the armies that preyed upon them. Fortune was used to spending days in the saddle with the blazing sun beating mercilessly on his back and nights sleeping on cold rocky earth with the howling of wolves to lull him to sleep. Hilario kept up with him, making no complaints, showing no signs of tiring in spite of being twice his age.
The old vaquero had been born and bred in the wild Sonoran backcountry where the air was so clear and thin the wind could peel the skin right off a man's flesh. Temperatures rose to ninety by noon and fell to twenty by nightfall. He was one of the intrepid hombres del norte who used livestock worm medicine to treat their cuts and abrasions and inserted red-hot wires into the cavities of their rotting teeth to kill the nerves.
During the first day the old man was respectful and reticent, observing the proprieties of his class—he was a mere horse handler in the company of the patrón. That night Nicholas opened a bottle of mescal after the two of them had shared camp chores preparing their simple meal of frijoles and coffee.
