by Henke, Shirl
When he walked downstairs, Lupe greeted him shyly. “Dona Mercedes asks that you come to the kitchen.”
Surprised by the unusual request, he nodded and headed toward Angelina's fragrant domain as the smell of spicy rabbit stew filled the air. No machos tonight, glory be to God! He walked into the room and found Mercedes and Rosario sitting at the long trestle table by the courtyard window.
“Papa, are you going to eat with us? We missed you while you were gone.”
“I decided to eat informally while we were all working late outdoors. It's been easier. If you wish, I can have Lupe set the dining room table,” Mercedes said.
She was fresh from her own bath, her hair piled up on top of her head in damp ringlets, her skin glowing rose-gold from days in the sun. She wore a simple peach-colored muslin gown trimmed with white embroidery. He forgot all about food. “This will be fine for tonight,” he said, pulling up a heavy pine chair, crudely bound together with rawhide strapping.
They ate the hearty fare, exchanging bits of conversation about the stock roundup and the growth of crops, speculating on what the weather might be over the rest of the summer season, with occasional interjections from Rosario. It would have seemed to a casual observer that this was a happy family, comfortably ensconced in a familiar routine. But the promise of the night to follow created a subtle tension between Nicholas and Mercedes that belied the mundane words they spoke.
Outside in the shadows of the stable, two men held another sort of conversation.
“I say he has changed. Porfirio is right. We should do as the gringo asks,” the young vaquero argued.
The older man inhaled his cigarette, his eyes glowing in the darkness that surrounded his weathered features. “Oh, Don Lucero has changed, all right,” he said with a wry laugh. “You did not know him as a boy or you would recognize just how much he has changed.”
“I know criollo haughtiness,” the youth replied. “There was a day when he would never have ridden with us, sweaty and rope-burned as we are. Now he has slept beside us, shared our humble food and taken his pull at the jug of pulque when it was passed around the campfire. He has become a man of the people. The war made him see things differently. He left the army because he could no longer support the usurpers.”
“Don Lucero did not spend much time in the army,” the older man corrected his youthful companion. “He ended up a contre-guerrilla, the worst of the lot, cutthroats in imperial pay.” He spat in disgust, remembering the last time he had seen their handiwork in a nearby village.
“I don't understand. You said you liked the man he has become since he's returned to Gran Sangre,” Gregorio said in bewilderment.
“That does not mean I would trust him enough to approach him openly. Not yet. We need time to see if this man is as he seems to be.”
“We have no time to waste. I know Don Lucero will help us.”
“If he is Don Lucero...” Hilario replied speculatively. “If not, perhaps we can trust him more. Or perhaps even less.”
* * * *
When Mercedes realized her husband stood in the doorway to her room, she set her hairbrush down on the dressing table and turned to him. His hand grazed the smooth new wood of the door sash and he glanced at it, then quirked one eyebrow at her.
Mercedes recalled the knowing smirk of the carpenter who had come to refit the broken door. “I had it repaired,” was all she said.
“But you didn't relock it. Perhaps we're making some progress.” His voice was smooth as he glided into her bedroom.
“I've tucked Rosario in. She enjoyed the story you read her very much,” she evaded, nervously moistening her lips.
“Soon she'll be reading herself. But this isn't the time for discussing fairy tales.” He emanated a dark current of sexual heat that touched her before he so much as laid a hand on her.
“No, I suppose not. Our marriage could scarcely be described in fairy-tale terms unless you wish to make an analogy to Beauty and the Beast,” she replied tartly.
“Ah, but which of us is which?” He chuckled as he reached for her hand, pulling her up. “Time for bed, Mercedes.”
Then to her utter amazement and chagrin, he turned and walked arrogantly back through the door, as if expecting her to follow like some obedient pet! “I suppose you imagine me properly chastised enough to heel,” she said, fighting the urge to fly at his broad back and shred the elegant brocade robe from his shoulders.
Nicholas had deliberately left her, determined to win the contest of wills. He turned to face her, standing beside the big four-poster bed. “I will not drag you nightly into this bed you've sworn to occupy with me, Mercedes. You must know I desire you by now. I've explained all I intend to about Cenci. She doesn't interest me in the least and I'll not waste any further breath on her.”
“Or on me, it would appear,” she replied, disgusted by his male ego.
He grinned rakishly. “Oh, I intend to expend a great deal of breath—hot labored breath—on you. And it won't be a waste at all. Come here.” His voice was hoarse and low, rasping out the command.
Obediently she crossed the threshold and removed her robe…
* * * *
Over the next few months they fell into a pattern, working in cooperation through the days, putting in long arduous hours—he handling the stock, she in charge of the crops which grew lushly rich because of the irrigation ditches. They both played with Rosario, although Mercedes did so at the noon break, Nicholas in the evenings. The child was incredibly bright, finishing her first primer within six weeks. At every meal the patrón and patrona spoke of everyday matters pertaining to the hacienda, the weather, politics, much as any ordinary couple might.
But when night fell and they retired to the master bedroom, they were transformed. Nicholas became the passionate aggressor, claiming a husband's rights to her body while Mercedes remained coolly resistant—on the surface. She acquiesced to her marital duties but was painfully determined to suppress any spark of answering fire which would give him an emotional hold on her.
He stalked her, sometimes seducing her with incredible gentleness, taking hours to caress and tease her body, which occasionally betrayed evidence of how difficult it was becoming for her to lie passive beneath his touch. Other times, in frustration, he took her quickly with no preliminaries, then rolled over and fell asleep while she lay beside him, staring into the darkness with the deep persistent ache in her belly still unassuaged. As for the ache in her soul...that she never dared consider at all.
She spent every night in his bed for he would permit it no other way. Part of her cried out at the humiliating invasion of her privacy, of the breach of civilized tradition for husbands and wives of their class—separate bedrooms. Yet there was an insidious sense of warmth and familiarity that grew with the passage of time as he held her against his long hard body every night. She slept with his heartbeat steady and strong in her ear.
A small voice deep inside her reminded her that if he was with her, he was not with Innocencia. After the one incriminating incident in the bathhouse, Mercedes never saw Lucero pay the slightest attention to his former mistress. Perhaps he had merely tired of her after encountering far more exotic and sophisticated women during the war. Or perhaps he really desired only his wife. Had he not repeatedly said so in his mockingly arrogant manner? Could that mocking arrogance be his shield? She felt an increasing tension building inside her as time passed and she sensed that only Lucero could assuage her restless spirit...if she gave in to his touch. Could she ever learn to trust her husband?
One bright autumn morning sunlight poured in the narrow slit between the heavy velvet draperies of Doña Sofia's room. The old woman had rallied a bit with the coming of cooler weather. She had been sitting up in a chair for brief intervals after mass. Now she leaned forward and peered through the opening in the draperies. The window overlooked the well at one end of the courtyard. Mercedes was passing by the shelter of the fig trees when Lucero emerged from the thick foliage
to intercept her.
The old woman's rheumy eyes narrowed avidly as she watched him pull Mercedes against his chest for a swift scorching kiss. His hands tangled in her gold hair, bending her head backward while his mouth ravaged hers. He was hard and dark as an Aztec god in contrast to her English paleness. His hands caressed her with such practiced familiarity that it drew a stuffy gasp of outrage from Doña Sofia.
From her vantage point it seemed to the old woman that Mercedes participated in the sinuous blending of their bodies. Then he released her abruptly and she disappeared behind the fig trees, leaving him standing beside the well with an arrogant grin on his handsome face. The devil's face. His father's face. But was it her son's face?
“From the look of things, he'll soon enough have her breeding if she isn't already carrying his child,” she muttered to herself, leaning back in her chair, weakened by the exertion of sitting forward. How Anselmo would hate it, she thought with relish.
“You will roar up from hell, old man, when your bastard's bastard lays claim to Gran Sangre!” Her laugh was dry as parchment in the quiet darkness.
A sudden shortness of breath seized her then and she began to cough, quickly bringing Lazaro running into the room. The servant scooped up the frail old woman and deposited her against the mound of pillows at the head of her bed. She weighed no more than a child these days. Then he rang for help as the old patrona struggled to breathe.
Father Salvador was summoned at once and the physician from a nearby village was sent for. When she began to spit up fresh blood by early evening, Father Salvador administered the last rites as Nicholas and Mercedes looked on in silence. The old woman was unaware of their presence.
The doctor arrived late in the evening but could do little to alleviate her shortness of breath. He did agree to allow Angelina, who was an excellent herbalist, to distill a drink of aromatic royal salvia and walnut bark. Patiently she and Mercedes took turns spooning the broth down Doña Sofia's throat. By midnight she was sleeping peacefully.
Mercedes stepped from the sickroom into the hall, thinking only of a hot soak and a good night's sleep when she saw Father Salvador standing by the stairs. He approached her, his expression grave.
“There is something of urgency, Doña. I beg a private word with you.”
She nodded, then followed him down the hall where he ushered her into his small office. The walls were filled with religious books. A stark wooden prie deux stood against the fourth wall with a heavy crucifix hung in front of it. Statues of various saints looked on with solemn eyes as he offered her a seat.
He paced across the bare wood floor, then turned to face her. “While I have attended Doña Sofia these past months of her illness, she has spoken little or nothing of her son's return.”
A tiny smile twitched at the corner of Mercedes’ mouth in spite of her fatigue. “I'm surprised she hasn't made confession to you of uncharitable thoughts about him.”
He fixed her with an intent blue gaze. “I could never, of course, violate the sanctity of the confessional,” he replied sternly, then sank onto the hard-backed chair behind his desk with a sigh. “I will say that I am troubled over the state of her soul.”
“You mean because she hates her son?”
His head jerked up abruptly. “How did you—surely she has never spoken such aloud!”
“Not in so many words, no. Nor has my husband been any more forthcoming on the subject. But I've seen them together—and even more, I've lived with her these past four years while he was away. She blames him for his father's sins.”
“He has quite enough of his own to answer for,” Father Salvador replied testily.
“Yes, he does, but that doesn't excuse her treatment of him. I think she disliked him even as a boy,” Mercedes said thoughtfully, recalling oblique comments Lucero had made in past months.
“There was much to dislike,” he said quickly, then leaned his elbows on the desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose, deep in thought.
When he resumed speaking, his voice was distant and soft, recalling painful memories of long ago. “He was a difficult child, willful and spoiled, as most criollos seem born to be. But incredibly bright, quick of mind. That very inventive mind was what continually got him into trouble, but I should have seen the potential in him as I do in his daughter now. Alas, I did not and for that I will have to answer one day.” He looked up for a moment, staring at nothing at all, then resumed, “He was impious and defiant, willing to take the most severe caning rather than recant any wicked words or actions. He would steal, lie bald-faced. When he wished he could charm the birds from the trees.”
Her smile was brittle. “Traits no doubt inherited from Don Anselmo.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Lucero adored his father's debauched way of life and attempted to emulate it.”
“As Don Anselmo's only son and mirror image, it was only natural he'd turn to his father, no matter how poor an example he was. Perhaps Lucero was only looking for someone to love him,” she added softly.
Father Salvador seemed to age visibly before her eyes. “Yes, I have been forced, here of late, to consider that and to examine my own culpability in not seeing how the son came to be set on the father's course. However, it is not my guilt, but rather his mother's that concerns me now. She and Lucero should be reconciled before she dies.”
Mercedes looked startled. “Is that why you wanted to speak to me?”
“Who else? You are his wife. He would take the suggestion more readily from you than me. We have not dealt well together since the first time I caught him beating one of the peon's sheepdogs with a leather harness. There always was a streak of cruelty in Lucero.”
Remembering how Bufón had grown to love her husband now, she quickly interjected, “But he's changed. He has a natural way with animals.”
He smiled thinly. “There, you see? You are the only one who can approach him. Perhaps if he goes to his mother as she lies dying, the two of them can reach some sort of accord. It is not only for her that this is important, but for him as well.”
She could feel his eyes piercing her, willing her to agree. “I will try, Father, but I can promise nothing.”
* * * *
“Surely you're not serious,” Nicholas said with the jaundiced lift of one eyebrow. They stood facing each other in his study the following evening. He busied himself pouring pre-dinner glasses of Madeira, then handed her one and said, “Ah, but ever devout Christian that you are, you must be serious. So, I'm to be reconciled with my beloved mamacita on her deathbed, eh? It will serve nothing, Mercedes,” he stated flatly. “She's despised me from the day I was born and she may take her hate with her to her grave and welcome.” Bitterness laced the words as another cold unnatural mother's face flashed before his eyes.
“Father Sal—”
“And that old bastard with his hickory cane may hastily join her,” he interrupted, then gulped down the last of his Madeira.
“I think he regrets how he treated you. Rosario has made him see his mistakes. He wants to atone, Lucero.”
At the mention of the child's name, Nicholas's expression softened. “Rosario does seem to get on well with the old goat. She read to me from her primer yesterday. Her progress is amazing.”
“We owe it to Father Salvador,” she countered.
Before he could say anything, Baltazar walked hurriedly into the room. His normally reserved, cool face was now set in lines of agitation. “Patrón, there are soldiers coming.”
“Imperial or Juarista?” Nicholas asked, heading quickly to the cabinet where he kept his weapons.
“I do not know. I have sent for Gregorio as you instructed me to do in such an emergency.”
“Good. My men know what to do,” Fortune replied, levering open the breech of his Henry and checking its load. Snapping it shut, he turned to Mercedes. “Get Rosario and take her to the kitchen. Stay with Angelina, behind the stone hearth. Whatever you do, stay out of sight.”
“I know how to f
ire a gun, Lucero. I've faced soldiers on my own before. I had to,” she retorted, angry at his clipped dismissal.
“Well, you no longer have to—do as I say. Think of the child if not yourself,” he snarled impatiently.
The reminder of Rosario stilled her angry retort. She nodded but did take the shotgun with her.
Fortune had arranged a contingency plan with his men in the event that marauders of either side menaced Gran Sangre. The massive square adobe building had four-foot-thick walls. Although the windows facing the inner courtyard were large and low, those to the outside were high and narrow, good rifle ports. Like most of the great haciendas in the north, it had been constructed as a natural fortress.
By the time he reached the courtyard, all the men were in position atop the roof and in the gateways. When he was in Hermosillo hiring new vaqueros, he was also able to procure some contraband weapons with which to arm them. The new Sharps breech-loading carbines were secured from an enterprising group of contre-guerrillas who had stolen the American weapons in route to General Escobedo's army in Chihuahua.
He quickly crossed the courtyard to where Hilario and his young companion, Gregorio, were waiting by the main gateway facing the road. Although only eighteen, the boy had a levelheaded assurance about him that struck a chord of recognition in Fortune, who had been a seasoned veteran of several campaigns by that age. He had not asked Gregorio Sanchez for which side he had ridden because he did not care. His only concern was that Sanchez was loyal to Gran Sangre now. And Hilario, whom he knew to be a lifelong Alvarado retainer, had vouched for the youth.
Gregorio was peering out at the trail where a plume of dust rose as the column of soldiers approached, his expression intent as he plied the spyglass. “They are Juaristas, patrón. Around twenty of them, traveling fast.” He handed the glass to Fortune.
