by Henke, Shirl
Taking a long pull from the bottle of potent liquor, Fortune passed it to the old man. “It'll keep us warm through the night.”
Hilario's wizened face reflected surprise for an instant. Then he reached for the bottle. His shrewd dark eyes glowed like coals as he studied his boss. “The war has changed you.”
“So my wife says,” Nicholas replied with a faint smile.
“In the old days you would not have kept up with me,” the tough wiry old vaquero rejoined, taking a cautious sip and handing the bottle back to Nick.
Without hesitation, Fortune took another swig and passed the mescal back. “In the old days I could not have kept up with you.”
“Yes, you were a boy then, and I was a full-grown man. So we all grow older and perhaps wiser...if the fates are kind. And if they are not, who knows why?”
Nicholas cocked one black eyebrow. “You speak of fate the way a soldier does.”
Hilario accepted the mescal again and took a far more generous pull this time. “I have learned to accept what life has to offer. I do not think God and his saints have any more interest in cowhands than they do in soldiers. We leave the praying to the peons.”
He began rolling a cigarette and Nicholas did the same. They smoked and drank in companionable silence for a while.
“I will tell you a story of the peons at Pueblo San Isidor.”
Fortune looked at the old man whose eyes crinkled with mirth now. “That's on old Don Esteban's land, isn't it?”
“Yes, but really it is a joke that could be told of any farmers. I do not know if it is true.” He shrugged guilelessly, then launched into his tale. “Just before planting time, the peons came to the village priest and asked permission to take the statue of their patron saint out into the fields to guarantee a good planting. He agreed and they did so. The corn sprouted and the tender young shoots grew thickly, but then a terrible drought fell upon the land and the corn plants began to shrivel. Again they approached the priest, this time asking to take the statue of the Holy Virgin into the fields to pray for rain. Again he agreed and they did so. The rains began, but instead of the gentle drizzle they had prayed for, a terrible storm gathered and the heavens opened up. When it was finally over, every stalk of corn had been beaten to the earth and lay in the mud, dead and rotting.
“The villagers approached the priest for the third time, this time asking for the statue of Jesus. ‘God help me!’ the priest cried out. ‘Surely you don't want to pray for more rain?’ “ ‘No,’ their head man said, ‘we want to take Him to the fields to show Him what sort of a mother he has!’ ”
As Fortune threw back his head and laughed, Hilario took a final swig draining the spider from the bottle of mescal. “As I said, , it is only a harmless story.”
Still chuckling, Nicholas replied, “Somehow I don't think Father Salvador would find it at all amusing.”
“Pah! That one. He would have us doing such penance that we would have more calluses on our knees than we do on our hands.”
“He's certainly kept my mother busy at her beads as long as I can remember,” Nicholas said, recalling the childhood memories of Doña Sofia that Luce had shared with him. Although Lottie Fortune had certainly not been devout, there were similarities in the way he and his brother had missed having a mother's love.
“He came here as her confessor when she arrived to wed your father. His first loyalty has always been to your mother.”
“I would expect he'd support her against my father.”
“And your father against your wife, as well, but it is not my place to speak of what goes on inside the great house. The mescal has loosed my tongue.”
Nick's lethargic demeanor changed. He sat up and studied the old man. “Don Anselmo and Father Salvador always hated one another. Why would the old priest take his side in anything?”
Hilario grew uncomfortable. It was foolish of him to bring up the plight of the young patrona, for he knew Don Lucero and his lady did not get on any better than Don Anselmo and Doña Sofia had. “Your lady had to make difficult choices after you went to war, patrón. You know how your father enjoyed life in Hermosillo. He was not much interested in being of Gran Sangre.”
“He preferred the high life in the city, cards, drinking, horse races, cockfights, women, yes. Mercedes told me she was forced to take over running the estate even before he fell ill. I wasn't certain whether to believe her or not.”
“Believe her, Don Lucero. She has worked harder than anyone on the place.”
“And even though he refused to do the work, he begrudged letting a woman usurp his place when he was away?” He could read the truth on the old man's face. “It must've been hell for her. And that rigid old priest would’ve thought it unnatural for a mere female to accomplish what she did.”
“He scolded her for riding with me and my men. We are a godless lot, you know,” Hilario said with a roguish grin, then sobered. “But she always stood by us, even when it cost her a fearful penance. She held Gran Sangre together for the day of your return, . Now that you are here, things will be better.”
“I hope so, Hilario, I hope so.” If the little spitfire will give up the power she 's grown so fond of wielding without a fight. “Do you think we'll be able to get any of the drifters in Hermosillo to ride for us?”
“You told me you can pay in gold. There is an old saying. No matter how high the chickens roost, they always come down for corn. Times are hard and men who do not want to be soldiers still need to eat. You will find your riders.”
“I only hope we find enough horses and cattle to make them worth the hiring,” Nicholas groused, poking at the fire.
“Do not fear. Once we are far enough away from where the soldiers can patrol in comfort, we will find horses and cattle aplenty.”
Hilario was as good as his word. The next afternoon they crested a ridge and looked down on a wide stretch of open grassland dotted with fine fat longhorns. By the third day out they had located a band of horses led by one of his father's prize Andalusian stallions. It was apparent that there was indeed much left to salvage on Gran Sangre land now that he was there to lead the work. They headed back to the great house on the fourth day, filled with plans for gathering the herds and wintering them in the box canyons of the western mountains where they would be safe from marauders, imperial or republican.
Late that afternoon they rode up to the corrals at the ranch, dust-covered, bone weary and elated. Hilario handed his horse over to one of the boys in the stable and then headed to his jacal. Not wanting to trust the youth with Peltre, Nicholas led the lathered stallion into his stall for a rubdown.
The low-ceilinged quarters were hot and close. Earthy aromas of man and horse blended together as he worked on the big gray. Midway through the task, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it onto the stall railing along with his weapons.
After a ride to the fields to check on the crops, Mercedes, too, was hot and tired as she dismounted in front of the stable. The old dun mare she had managed to salvage from confiscation was no prize but she treasured the horse. She patted the mare and stepped inside to see that the boy took care of her. The sudden dimness of the interior caused her to blink. Dust motes swam before her eyes and she heard sounds coming from the rear of the long building, the soft whickering of a horse and a man's low silky voice, crooning to it. Lucero's voice!
He's back! Her heart accelerated as she shooed the mare quietly into a stall and padded soundlessly through the soft straw toward them. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could make out her husband's figure. He had his back turned to her as he gathered up his things, laying his gun belt over one bare shoulder and slinging a damp shirt carelessly over the other. Should she slip into a stall and avoid a confrontation? She looked a fright, dusty and disheveled. No. After all, it was hardly as if she wanted to attract him. She stood in the aisle as he turned and walked around the stall door, then stopped directly in front of her, startled at her sudden appearance.
“I thoug
ht I heard someone,” he said as his eyes swept from her tangled mane of tawny hair down the length of the threadbare brown riding habit. The color would not have favored most women, but Mercedes was not most women. Her sun-gilded skin and amber eyes took on a rich luster when she wore the warm chocolate shade. In spite of being old and much mended, the habit was molded to her soft curves. She had unbuttoned the collar low enough to reveal the slight swell of her breasts.
She could feel his wolf's eyes scorching her breasts and fought not to fumble with the buttons of her jacket to cover herself. Instead she faced him pugnaciously. “We didn't expect you back until tomorrow. There's little for dinner, but I'll have Angelina kill a chicken. Lazaro will draw water for your tub.”
His body was soaked with sweat and caked with yellow dust. He grinned. “Do you find me offensive?” he asked, adjusting the weight of the holster at his shoulder and stepping closer to her.
“In more ways than you could imagine,” she snapped, angry at her reaction to his nearness. She could smell the scent of his perspiration, male and pungent yet not an unpleasant blend with the scent of leather and horse. Beads of sweat formed tiny rivulets, some catching in the pelt of hair on his chest, others running lower to seep into the waistband of his tight black trousers. When they were first married, he had shared her bed, but she had never before seen him naked for he always came to take her in darkness, then departed quickly when the deed was done. His body looked as hard and sleek as it had felt when he lay atop her, pumping his seed into her unreceptive womb.
Her eyes seemed to have a will of their own, unable to get enough of studying the muscles beneath his sun-bronzed skin, which was marked with numerous scars, some small nicks, others large and jagged. She stared at one awful slash that ran from his chest around his side. His words finally broke into her trance.
“A saber scar, compliments of one of General Escobedo's soldiers,” he said dryly, amused by her untutored fascination with his body, yet also concerned she might wonder how he had acquired so many scars since she had seen him last. Most of the wounds, including the saber slash, were old. He hoped she could not tell that. “It's been an...active four years.”
Mercedes blinked, then met his mocking eyes. “Yes, I can see it has, but it would be inappropriate for the patron to stride into the sala half-dressed and armed like a brigand. Would you please replace the shirt and leave your guns here for one of the servants to fetch?”
“You asked that rather prettily for such a tart-tongued wench. Miss me, darling Mercedes?” He reached up and took hold of the unbuttoned lapel of her jacket, pulling her closer to him. “I'm not the only one who's inappropriately undressed.” He sniffed her damp skin, which smelled of lavender blended with her delicate female musk. “And in need of a bath as well. Shall we ask Lazaro to fill a large tub for both of us to share?”
She tried to jerk back. Genuine alarm filled her eyes. “Certainly not!” Her hands pressed against the springy hair on his chest. He towered over her, satiny muscles bunched in his arms as he drew her closer until she could feel his silver belt buckle press against her rib cage and the cartridges on his gun belt cut into the tender flesh of her shoulder. The scabbard holding that awful knife jabbed into her hip when she tried to twist away.
He laughed and drew her closer, tangling his hand in the mass of hair trailing down her back. “God, you are a beauty,” he growled low, looking as if he might devour her.
Mercedes could feel the bulge growing in his tight breeches as he held her between his thighs and rocked his hips against hers, lowering his mouth toward hers as his hand immobilized her head. This was what she had feared from the moment he returned to Gran Sangre, or so she tried to tell herself. She did not want him forcing her to submit to him, his body punishing hers. And yet...she felt her heart pounding in her chest as his warm breath fanned her cheek. She tried to remain cool and passive, to be the limp rag doll he had scornfully accused her of being four years ago.
But now everything felt different. She could not remain passive. A part of her tensed, eager for him to kiss her. But he surprised her by releasing her instead. She stumbled back, dazed.
Nicholas had never done anything more difficult in his life than let her go. He ached with wanting her and had come within an inch of branding her with a harsh punishing kiss. That's the way Luce would do it. I'm not Luce, dammit!
“Tonight,” he whispered softly.
A threat or a promise? She was not certain which he intended—or how she felt about it either way.
Chapter Five
Nicholas watched her step away from him, her breath still coming in short jagged gasps. Those luscious breasts rose and fell quickly, then subsided as she forced herself to regain her calm. He grinned at her with Luce's arrogant nonchalance and raised his hands in mock surrender. Glancing down at the blatantly visible proof of how badly he wanted her, he said, “You see how it is between us, love.”
“I see you're the same rutting stallion who couldn't leave a female between the age of fourteen and forty untouched,” she snapped, then wanted to bite her tongue. Enraging him was stupid and would only guarantee that he made his retribution all the more swift and ugly.
But he surprised her with a rich low chuckle and slid the gun belt from his shoulder, tossing it on the top rail of Peltre's stall. Then he reached down to his long hard thigh and unfastened the leather tie of his knife scabbard. He laid it next to the gun belt.
Turning back to her he shrugged. “Now, you see? I'm completely defenseless before you.”
“You have never been defenseless since the day of your birth!”
“That's not true at all, Mercedes. When I—” He stopped short, aghast at what he had been about to blurt out. God above, what was the matter with him! The woman made him lose all judgment. Pretty soon he would give away the whole charade and end up a landless bastard with his gun for hire again. Keep your wits about you. Play Luce, dammit!
She saw the flash of anguish pass over his face, but before she could even wonder what had triggered it, he was grinning in that old hateful, lascivious way. He shrugged his damp, crumpled shirt over his broad shoulders. She found herself licking her lips and swallowing nervously as she watched the play of bronzed muscles beneath the sheer white linen. “I’ll see to dinner and your bath,” she said with all the dignity she could muster, turning around before he said anything more humiliating.
He called after her retreating figure, “Don't forget your own bath, Mercedes. We wouldn't want to dirty the bed linens with sweat.”
Her back stiffened slightly, but she did not break stride. If he was the rutting stallion she accused him of being, then she was an elegant little mare—his elegant little mare. Tonight would be good, he vowed as he called the stable boy over and instructed him to feed Peltre and then bring his weapons to the house.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs from the entry hall, he was whistling to himself, but then he saw the narrow black figure of the priest bearing down the hall toward him. Damn, what did Sofia's confessor want with him? He thought of Hilario's sacrilegious jokes and smiled to himself as he greeted the older man. “Father Salvador, you wish to see me?”
“I'm glad you have returned. A matter of some urgency has arisen. A rider from Hermosillo brought this for the patrón this afternoon.” He handed an envelope with the seal broken to Nicholas.
Frowning at the open seal, Fortune flipped the letter over. It was addressed to Don Anselmo. As he reached inside, the priest hastily explained, “Because it was sent to your father and you were not at home, I felt it my duty to see if I could resolve the matter.”
“The rider—did he wait?” Fortune asked as he unfolded the small sheet of plain, inexpensive paper.
“No. He was paid by the Ursuline Sisters only to deliver this on his way to Durango,” the priest replied nervously, watching the patrón scan the small cribbed handwriting.
* * * *
Most Noble Sir,
As you know,
we have cared for the infant you sent to us four and a half years ago, along with her mother, Rita Hererra, who worked in the kitchens of the convent. I regret to inform you that Senorita Hererra has been stricken with cholera and passed on to the blessed mercy of our Lord this past week.
We would be most happy to continue looking after Rosario, who is a bright and beautiful little girl, but the epidemic which swept away her mother has also claimed many of my sisters in Christ, leaving our convent desperately understaffed during this turbulent time. I fear for her safety if she remains with us. Therefore, I regretfully request that you reclaim your son's child and see to her upbringing elsewhere.
Understanding the delicate nature of the situation, may I be so bold as to suggest you seek assistance from the Convent of the Holy Cross in Guaymas, which has been as yet untouched by the war? A small monetary gift accompanying the child, as you sent to us with her mother, would be greatly appreciated by Mother Superior Mary Agnes. If I do not receive word from you by the end of the month, I shall be forced to return Rosario to Gran Sangre.
* * * *
The closing of the letter with its formal title and signature blurred before his eyes. He crumpled it, balling it up tightly as his mind raced. A child. His own flesh and blood, his niece, and Luce had never even mentioned her or her mother! Of course, knowing how Luce felt about women, he probably did not deem a cast-off serving wench and her illegitimate brat worthy of remembering. Luce was his father's son all right.
At the time the baby and her mother were being packed off to Hermosillo, arrangements for the betrothal between Mercedes Sebastián and Lucero Alvarado were being finalized. Don Anselmo had decided to get rid of the embarrassment of his son's bastard, but why would he bother when he let Luce cavort with Innocencia so openly, in front of his bride? Grimly Nicholas realized the old man simply had not been able to control Luce, else he would never have allowed his only son and heir to ride off to war before performing his conjugal duty.
