by Henke, Shirl
And it was about to change again. She rose restlessly, set the brush aside and walked over to the window. The sun was just rising above the distant edge of the Sierra Madre Occidental, outlining the mountains in a blaze of golden light tinged with deep fire orange and slashed through with purple and magenta. The birth of a new day.
If she had read the signs right, Gran Sangre would see the birth of its new heir early in the spring, the child Lucero had come home to give her. Would he be pleased? Once she had feared that becoming heavy with child would provide excuse enough for him to turn once again to his whore, humiliating her and leaving her alone now that he had performed his duty. She tried hard to believe he would not do that. This man loved her and loved children. He adored Rosario and would be overjoyed to have more brothers and sisters for her.
But will he still want to make love to you when you grow fat and shapeless? She massaged her temples with her fingers, willing the nagging fear to abate. At least they could go to the Vargas fiesta before her waistline began to thicken. Should she tell him before that?
“I must be absolutely sure,” she murmured to herself as she began to dress.
But she knew the signs were almost certain. A month after Lucero had left Gran Sangre four years ago, old Don Anselmo had summoned the bride to his study and interrogated her in humiliating detail about her intimate bodily functions and dismissed her, furious to learn that she was not breeding. Mercedes had become forcibly acquainted, to her maidenly dismay, with all the symptoms of pregnancy at the tender age of seventeen.
When she entered the dining room, Lucero was already halfway through his breakfast. He looked up at her with a warm smile. “You're up early today. You've been sleeping later. I didn't expect you so soon or I'd have waited for you.” His eyes studied her with concern as he pulled out her chair. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I'm fine. It was such a lovely morning I couldn't sleep any longer. You left earlier than usual.” She waited expectantly for him to offer some explanation, but before he could, Angelina came bustling in from the kitchen with a pot of steaming fragrant coffee and a platter of fried eggs with spicy red sauce.
“Sit and eat, patrona. You look pale this morning. You need more flesh on your bones—does she not, ?” she asked, setting the platter in front of Mercedes.
Nicholas looked at her with concern. “You are a bit peaked, love. Are you sure there's nothing wrong?”
The rich oily aroma of the coffee filled her nostrils, combined with the spicy tomatoes and before Mercedes could reply, another wave of nausea struck her. Leaping up she gulped an excuse, nearly overturning her chair in her rush for the kitchen door.
In a flash Nicholas followed, finding her bent over the slop pail by the door. He knelt beside her, holding her shoulders as she was racked by a series of dry heaves. When they subsided, he handed her his handkerchief and helped her stand, then ushered her to a chair. Interestingly enough, Angelina had not come after him into her domain.
“Now,” he said gently, pulling another heavy kitchen chair up beside hers, “don't you think you'd better tell me what's wrong?” He had a pretty good idea but was afraid to jump to conclusions, knowing how his father and Doña Sofia had hounded Mercedes about her possible barrenness.
Mercedes looked into his eyes, those dark magnetic wolf's eyes. Once she had thought them cold and predatory. Now they glowed with warmth, concern, love. Taking a swallow for courage, she said, “I was going to wait until I was more certain...but it would seem I am carrying your child, Lucero.”
That name again. He must get used to it. She could never learn to call him by his real one, he knew. But at a moment like this, it hurt. He stood up and pulled her into his arms. “Beloved, I am overjoyed.” Then he raised her bowed head and looked into her eyes. “Are you?”
She had sensed something bothering him. If he wanted the child, could he actually believe she did not? “Oh yes, yes, my love. I'm truly happy.”
He studied her, a faint frown creasing his brow. She did seem genuinely pleased. “When is our child to arrive?”
“In the spring...early I think.” She could tell he was figuring the date of conception and blushed at the broad knowing smile that followed.
In all probability she had conceived the day he had been injured saving her from the mountain lion.
Chapter Sixteen
November 1866
Rather than be rattled like a maraca, Mercedes pleaded with her husband to leave the hacienda's ancient, ornate coach to gather dust in the stables. The journey on horseback would be infinitely more pleasant, an argument to which Nicholas “indulgently” bowed. After all, as a dutiful husband, he would be forced to ride in the coach and “rattle” along with his wife.
Six armed vaqueros accompanied Nicholas and Mercedes in route to Rancho Vargas, leading pack mules laden with finery for the days of feasting and dancing.
“Have you ever met Don Encarnación?” Nicholas asked Mercedes as they rode.
“Once,” she replied. A wary expression crossed her face as she looked at her husband. “Just before we were married. He rode to Gran Sangre to bring us a wedding gift, that ugly silver tea service gathering dust and tarnish in your mother's sitting room.”
“I'd forgotten. It seems so long ago now, after the war and all that's happened,” he added as smoothly as he could. Luce had told him nothing about her meeting with the old man, but he did know something about him. “Don Encarnación probably sent the silver wedding gift because he owns the largest silver mine in Chihuahua.”
“I've heard he's fabulously wealthy.”
He grinned. “Wait until you see Hacienda Vargas.”
“He and your father were quite close once,” she prompted.
He could feel her eyes studying him. Damn, there was no way to know everything about Luce's past! “They had a falling out many years ago,” he said with more assurance, recalling that rather unsavory tale from his brother. “I think it was over Encarnación's wife.”
“Dona Teresa? She's been dead for years.”
“She was a real beauty in her youth. Apparently she caught my father's eye. I doubt she encouraged him, but it certainly placed a strain on the friendship. They had little to do with each other since.”
“No wonder he was so grave and austere when he came to visit us,” she said grimly.
“He was always a severe old goat. I'm surprised he invited us to this celebration.”
“You're not responsible for Anselmo's sins, Lucero. Perhaps this is his way of bridging the rift in an old family friendship.”
“I doubt it. More likely he wants every hacendado in Sonora and Chihuahua to turn out for his special guests. Encarnación was always full of himself, even more arrogantly class conscious than my father, who was too debauched and self-indulgent to ever be a criollo purist. On the other hand, I suspect that Encarnación might fight and die for a cause. I doubt my father ever would have forsaken his vices long enough to become involved.”
“He certainly was angry when you left for the war,” she said thoughtfully.
“Only because I hadn't done my duty by getting you with child first—once that matter had been attended to, I would’ve been quite expendable, I'm certain.”
She had never before heard this bitterness toward his father. It startled her. Lucero had always been angry with his mother for her rejection of him, but he had worshipped the old don. “You used to imitate him. He was your idol.”
“Idols have feet of clay. Sometimes a man has to grow up himself before he's able to see that.”
Before she could comment further, Gregorio signaled that riders were approaching over the distant rise. Everyone reined in as Nicholas quickly scanned the surrounding open brushy area for cover. Little was to be had. Worriedly, he left his wife surrounded by the other men and rode ahead, pulling the glass from its case on his saddle and looking through it.
A dozen men quickly came into focus, well armed and superbly mounted. “We for damn
sure aren't going to outrun them,” he muttered beneath his breath. Then he raised the glass and looked again. He gave an oath of pure relief. “Leave it to old Encarnación to pull out all the stops for that Prussian and his wife.” He rode back to Mercedes to explain there was no danger, chuckling. “Those aren't uniforms. They're wearing livery...private military livery!”
In a few minutes the patrol arrived to escort the guests into the broad valley where the Hacienda Vargas was situated.
“This is truly amazing,” Mercedes said as they approached the enormous two-story adobe fortress.
The chapel alone was nearly two times the size of Gran Sangre's house. The compound had towers at each corner and the heavy wooden gate at the entrance bore the Vargas crest, a pretentious affair with Castillian lions on it. The whitewashed adobe walls and red tile roof were traditional for most northern haciendas, but this complex of buildings looked more like a miniature city than one man's estate.
“It's built like a fortress,” Mercedes said.
“Encarnación's great-great-grandfather built most of it back in the seventeenth century. At the time it was the farthest outpost in the province of Nueva Viscaya,” Nicholas replied.
A vigilant sentry in the corner tower observed the paramilitary escort as it approached with the hacienda's guests, then signaled for the massive mesquite wood gate to be opened. They filed into an enormous courtyard with three fountains and enough flowering shrubs and palm trees to cover half a dozen village plazas. Arched porticos ran the length of the interior buildings facing out on the courtyard.
Birds in brilliant plumage swung in cages from the porticos fronting the great house and hammocks were strung along the wall so the family and guests could while away warm afternoons in pleasant relaxation. Above the porticos a tiled verandah ran the length of the house, affording a splendid view of the interior of the Vargas domain. A huge gate opened at the opposite end of the courtyard leading into Don Encarnación's private bullring. Stables, corrals and tradesmen's shops lined the rest of the interior.
“It looks like something out of medieval Granada,” Mercedes said as they rode across the courtyard.
Nicholas’ eyes were on the welcoming committee standing at the main archway that was the entrance of the house. “I told you it was something to behold.”
A slim old man with ramrod straight posture that lent his scant five-foot-four an illusion of height, stood on the stone portico shadowed by a frangipani tree. His face was deeply tanned, scoured by the desert wind, his hair thin and silver-white. The corners of a narrow mustache turned up as he smiled ever so slightly in a welcome that did not extend to his wintry blue-gray eyes. Don Encarnación Vargas was a Spartan man in appearance and outlook.
“Welcome, Don Lucero. You've grown to be the very image of your father. I would recognize you always, even though we have not met in many years. I trust your journey was uneventful,” he said, bowing stiffly to the younger man.
“We experienced no problems, sir, but were grateful for your escort.”
“I expected you sooner. When you did not arrive I dispatched my private guard. There are Juarista banditti everywhere.”
“We would have arrived sooner but my wife needed to rest at frequent intervals. I did not want her overtired. She is expecting our child in the spring,” Nicholas said with pride as two of Vargas’ soldiers helped her dismount. Turning, he took her hand and presented her to the don.
Mercedes made her curtsy in front of the hawk-faced old man, whose expression was so severe it appeared the furrows at the sides of his mouth were like grooves carved in granite. “I am honored, Don Encarnación, and most grateful for your hospitality.” The way he inspected her, Mercedes was glad she had decided upon her less comfortable but far grander royal blue riding habit with heavy black braid trim.
“Welcome to Hacienda Vargas, Doña Mercedes, and my felicitations on the forthcoming birth of Gran Sangre's heir. My home is your home. I am certain you will wish to rest and refresh yourself before the evening's festivities. Viola will escort you to your quarters.”
He snapped his fingers sharply and a small Indian girl appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She bowed nervously and gestured for the lady to follow her.
Nicholas raised Mercedes’ hand and kissed it, then watched as she entered the wide arched doorway leading into the grand sala, followed by three servants carrying the bags that had been unstrapped from their pack mules.
“She is most lovely. Rather reminds me of my Teresa when she was young,” Don Encarnación said. “She was Spanish, from the north in Galicia. The same gold hair and eyes.”
Nicholas detected a wistfulness in the old man's voice for a brief moment, but then Don Encarnación's expression hardened again as he gestured for his guest to follow him along the wide stone portico. They bypassed the songbirds and hammocks. At the third door he turned into the house, entering a study which was lined with books and furnished with dark, ornately carved pieces. Heavy crimson velvet covered the windows and an old Castillian tapestry depicting El Cid in triumphal march hung on the inside wall. A full suit of Italian armor, probably Argonese, stood militantly at the side of the wall hanging.
Several men were clustered around a liquor cabinet, crystal goblets in their hands, laughing and talking. Fortune recognized Encarnación's son Mariano from Luce's description, a slightly plump man of forty or so, with light brown hair and slate-gray eyes, possessing his father's imperious manner, but not the iron discipline to make it convincing.
He turned, smiling broadly. His waistcoat buttons stretched across a thickening middle as he bowed the same formal way the old don had. “Lucero. Welcome. It has been years—you were but a stripling last time I saw you.”
“As I recall, your chestnut mare beat my black rather handily,” Nicholas said, praying he remembered the story accurately.
“I've retired from racing to pursue more important matters now,” Mariano replied, beaming with the remembered victory.
“My son is the imperial representative to the alcalde in Chihuahua,” the old don said with pride. “Allow me to present my old friends, Don Hernan Ruiz and Don Patrico Morales and Don Doroteo Ibarra.”
The men were courteous but somewhat reserved. With the exception of Don Hernan, they were all older, closer to Encarnación's age. They made pleasant small talk about their journeys to Hacienda Vargas and the ball that night.
“When do our guests of honor arrive?” Nicholas asked.
“Prince Salm-Salm and his wife have arrived, along with his aides,” the balding Don Patrico replied.
“You will meet them at the festivities tonight. They are resting now,” Don Encarnación added. “Perhaps you and the prince can exchange reminiscences of the war.”
“I understand you fought for the emperor, Don Lucero. Do you know the prince?” Morales asked.
“I haven't had the pleasure as yet, but I have heard of his exploits.”
“Why have you left the military, might I inquire?” Don Hernan's dark eyes swept Fortune swiftly, inventorying his obvious good health. The criollo's right arm hung uselessly at his side, a war injury of some sort, Nicholas assumed.
“Upon my father's death, the responsibilities for Gran Sangre fell to me as his sole heir. It was his dying wish I return home to rebuild it.”
“I've heard some disturbing rumors. Of course, Sonora is a distance away from my home in Durango...” Don Patrico paused for effect.
“What my old friend is trying to say is there have been some absurd stories circulating about your coddling peons,” Encarnación put in brusquely, his blue-gray eyes turning dark and flinty.
“How so?” Nicholas asked, taking a sip of his host's excellent port.
“By letting them go free without so much as a taste of the whip after they were caught butchering your beef,” Mariano supplied as he poured himself a generous refill, then studied the man he thought was Lucero over the rim of his glass.
Nicholas shrugged philosophically. Now wa
s as good a time as any to try his plan and see if it would work. “Yes, I let them go free—even gave them the damned dead steer. It was of no earthly use to me.”
“But making an example of thieving peons is vital if we are to maintain our authority,” Don Doroteo replied angrily.
“By making examples of the stupid savages, all we do is send them scurrying into the arms of Juarez and his damned rabble. I was only keeping them properly grateful for my benevolence,” Nicholas replied with dripping cynicism in his voice.
“Juarez!” Don Hernan spat the word as if it were the vilest epithet he knew. “That filthy Indian upstart from Oaxaca, leading a band of rabble armed with rusty muskets and machetes.”
Nicholas’ eyes lost their cynical amusement and took on a steely glint as he spoke with such intensity that it riveted every man in the room. “That upstart savage's rabble have captured Mazatlán and Guaymas, effectively shutting off west coast shipping in my state. Matamoros, Tampico and Vera Cruz—our three most lucrative Gulf coast customs ports are in their hands now, too. Escobedo's army sweeps from Nuevo Leon into Coahuila and Diaz has taken the capital of Oaxaca, driving out the archbishop.
“Now I realize, gentlemen, that we are isolated here in the northwest, but I can assure you from firsthand experience of only a few months past, Juarez is gaining ground, rallying his forces.”
“You can't seriously believe these godless republican scum will overthrow the monarchy?” Don Hernan said, aghast. “I saw them starved and beaten at Puebla in sixty-three.”
“Starved?” Fortune's eyebrows rose derisively. “Yes, after they held out for three months under bombardment by a force ten times their numbers. They're fanatically determined to defend their constitution and that mesmerizing little Indian who holds up the scrap of paper as if it were the Holy Grail. They fight and they win—and now they have outside help. Juarez's wife has been welcomed by the damnable gringos. Do you know she was invited to speak before their Congress? That their government has been sending shipments of Springfield rifles across the border to arm Escobedo? My contre-guerrilla group confiscated hundreds of them this past year.”
