by Len Levinson
They were confused young people living at the extremes, and somehow, as if by magic, they were prompted to hold each other more tightly. “Oh, Duane— I'm so unhappy.”
“Me, too,” he replied. “Nothing I do ever turns out right, and I live like that lobo on the ridgeline. God, it gets lonely sometimes.”
“I don't have anybody to talk with,” she confessed, “although I'm constantly surrounded by people. My father treats me like an idiot, and so does my husband, while everybody else is dishonest. I may not be lonely, but I'm certainly alone.”
They clutched each other as if each were the other's life preserver, and he felt her body heat radiate through their garments. Intoxicated by her splendor, he tried to remind himself that she was a married lady, and he a former Benedictine monk.
Meanwhile, she was aware of his taut body, so different from Don Carlos's corset. “My God,” she breathed, as his devilish fingers found her right breast. The sensations were new, wonderful, and her head was dizzy from that swallow of mescal. Their lips touched lightly, she smelled the desert emanate from his being, instead of her husband's French cologne. What am I doing? she asked herself.
His lips pressed more insistently, while his hand caressed her maddeningly. She knew that she should push him away, but her world had collapsed that day, and her brain was aflame with desire. She had nothing to hang onto, so she abandoned herself completely to his soothing ministrations. It felt as though she were melting in his strong arms, and his passion literally swept her off her feet.
He lowered her gently to the ground, and feasted like a vampire on her throat. She's mine! he thought triumphantly, and her body was real flesh and blood, unlike that of the skinny and prissy Miss Vanessa Fontaine. He lay atop her. Their lips touched, mouths opened, and surreptitiously, he raised the hem of her gown.
The tips of their tongues wrestled gently, and she knew that she was far over the edge. They rolled across grama grass and anthills, groping at each other's clothing. A twinge of shame swept through him, followed by a wave of pleasure as his hand came to rest against her bare leg.
Delicious electricity zapped through her, and never, not even in the early nights of her marriage, had she known such lunacy. She tingled in every membrane, and a tiny soft sugary explosion caused her to growl low in her throat.
Her voice roused him to further excess, as he removed the remainder of her dress. Doña Consuelo de Rebozo, the beautiful and elegant young Spanish noblewoman, lay naked before him, her eyes glittering as though somebody had lit a bonfire inside her skull.
He undressed quickly, their warm writhing bodies came together, and at that point, nothing could stop Duane, not a tribe of Apaches, not an earthquake, not even Don Carlos with a double-barreled shotgun in his hand. She scratched her fingers across his back, their teeth ground together as Aztec drums pounded in their ears, and they coupled desperately in the moonlight.
Where the hell is she? wondered Don Carlos, as he paced back and forth in his bedroom. He cursed and sputtered, because he hated to be impeded by unnecessary problems. Goddamned women—whenever there's trouble, they come apart at the seams.
Doña Consuelo had not gone to bed like a dutiful little wife, and Don Carlos wondered where she was hiding. She's an emotional child, he considered, and she might do something foolish, like shoot herself. At first he'd found her jealousy amusing, but now her erratic behavior was getting on his nerves.
There was a knock on the door, then García entered the bedroom. “She is nowhere in the hacienda, sir.”
The nobleman's eyebrows raised in surprise. “Wake up all the men, search the village, and if she's not there, comb the desert. I'm afraid that Doña Consuelo is distraught, and may do something foolish.”
The vaquero departed, and then Don Carlos walked to the balcony, where he stood with hands on the rail, the cigarillo sticking out of his teeth, eyes probing the desert before him. He'd thought she'd be in the library or her mother's bedroom, but it appeared that she'd taken leave of her senses altogether. You can't predict female behavior, he thought cynically. Just when you've got them figured out, they confound you yet again.
It had been a shock when she'd called him a liar to his face. If she'd been a man, he would've challenged her to a duel. Don Carlos couldn't understand why she was angry, because keeping a mistress on the side was a common pastime among men of his class. When Don Carlos had been married to his first wife, he'd maintained several women over the years—and Maria had understood completely, as long as she was queen of the hacienda.
Don Carlos hoped that Doña Consuelo hadn't wandered onto the desert, out of her head. I'll have to sit her down and give her a stern lecture when she gets back, he said to himself. I can't have my wife behaving like a madwoman in front of the servants.
Miss Vanessa Fontaine was experiencing heart palpitations in the dressing room of the Last Chance Saloon. I must be coming down with something, she told herself, as she took a sip of whiskey from a glass next to pots of cosmetics on her dressing table.
She'd felt unpleasant twinges since arriving for work that night, as if the world were off-kilter. Must be getting old, she determined, as she applied a dab of rouge to each glorious cheekbone.
There was a knock on the door. “Time to go on, Miss Fontaine,” said one of Maggie's bodyguards.
“I'll be right there,” she answered as she applied the final touches to her professional mask. Every night it takes a little longer, she acknowledged. I'll be thirty-two soon, so what am I doing throwing my life away for a man who's probably forgotten me? For all I know, he could be screwing another woman right now.
She arose from the dressing table, removed her apron, and studied herself in the full-length mirror. She wore a evening dress of black Chambéry gauze with gold-colored stripes, a square neck, and applique embroidery of silk and chenille on tulle. In the darkness, she could see the former Charleston belle looking back at her, but with new confidence and maturity in her eyes. I'm as good as I ever was, she tried to convince herself, and who knows, maybe tonight he'll be in the audience. With a rustle of skirts, she turned melodramatically and headed for her first performance of the evening.
Duane and Doña Consuelo put on their clothes, aware that they'd both passed the boundaries into a fearsome new world. The experience had been so stupendous, they were speechless. Duane strapped on his Colt, positioned the holster for a fast draw, and then tied the leather thong on the bottom of the holster to his leg.
“What now?” she asked, a faraway tone in her voice.
“Damned if I know.”
They hugged, and she pressed her lips against his chest. “I'm in love with you—I think.”
He buried his face in her fragrant black hair. “If this isn't love, what is?”
My life will never be the same, she cogitated, as she felt his warmth against her face. How can I go back to my husband? Catholic guilt smacked her in the face, and she shuddered uncontrollably.
“You're cold,” he said. “We'd better get back to the hacienda.”
“Not yet—please.”
He couldn't take his hands off her, and wished they could be in a nice safe bedroom, because there were many more acts that he wanted to perform, but even young people must be prudent on the desert. “It's dangerous here, Doña Consuelo.”
“We've got to talk.”
Oh-oh, he thought. They always want to talk. “What's wrong?”
“I don't love my husband, and I'm not going to live with him anymore. Why don't you take me with you?”
“You can't be serious!”
“After what has happened with us, how can I go back to Don Carlos?”
“But the U.S. Army is after me, and I'm constantly on the run. Perhaps you'd better give this more thought.”
“I made the assumption that...” Her voice trailed off.
“The assumption that I loved you?” he replied. “But I do, and if you want to come with me, I could have no finer or more beautiful woman than Do�
�a Consuelo, but you can't bring your maids with you, your clothes might get a little raggedy, and you could end up in jail. Just because I'm innocent, that might not save you from the hangman's noose.”
“If you love me as I love you, I will follow you anywhere.”
“We could run out of water, and you won't believe the rattlesnakes in some of those canyons. Sometimes wild pigs attack for the hell of it. And there's something I haven't explained yet. I'm on my way to—”
“I don't care where you're going, as long as I come with you.”
She clasped him more tightly, and his hands happened to fall on her glorious rump. This is a fabulous woman, and they don't come along every day, he considered. If she's willing to play the game, I'll give her a run for her money—why the hell not? “When do you want to leave?”
“Right now.”
“You'll need a coat, a blanket, and a gun. If there's one thing I've learned, it's don't go running off half-cocked. We must make plans, gather what we need, and leave after everything has settled down. Surprise is the most important element of attack, as one of my old soldier friends used to say.”
She didn't want to return to the house of lies, but could appreciate common sense when she heard it. “Very well,” she agreed. “We will do it your way.”
He heard something. “Get down.”
She dropped to her knees, as a voice called: “Doña Consuelo!”
“They're searching for me,” she said.
“Go to them, and we'll meet in the library around three o'clock tomorrow afternoon, to see how everything's going.”
She peered into his eyes. “Just tell me something. You really do love me, don't you?”
“We're meant for each other, otherwise we could not have done what just happened. Now you'd better get going before they find me.”
He helped her rise, rippled his tongue against hers, and eased her toward the vaqueros. “Doña Consuelo!” they called.
“I'm here!”
She blew Duane one last kiss, then turned toward the vaqueros. Duane slunk back into the shadows and watched her recede into the night. What a woman! he thought. My God, I've actually done it with Doña Consuelo de Rebozo! He couldn't believe his great good fortune. It just goes to show you that if you say your prayers every night, all good things will come to you.
He heard a vaquero say: “So here you are, Doña Consuelo. Your husband has been worried about you.”
“I was taking a walk,” she replied.
Duane smiled cynically in the shadows of the moon. They're all actresses, he meditated, and we men are a bunch of lying varmints. I'll spend eternity in the hottest oven they've got, after what I just did, but I have no regrets. It was beyond anything I've ever known, except Miss Vanessa Fontaine.
It all came back to Miss Vanessa Fontaine. Even now, in the aftermath of love with another woman, he couldn't help reflecting upon the former Charleston belle. Passion with her had been like seeing the face of God, but she'd deserted him for somebody else, and Duane was certain that Doña Consuelo de Rebozo would do the same. You can't trust any of them, he warned himself. I'll bet she changes her mind by the time tomorrow night rolls around.
“She has been found, sir.”
“Has she been hurt?”
“No, sir. She is on her way here now.”
The vaquero closed the door, leaving Don Carlos alone. The nobleman crossed himself and gave thanks to the sacred heart of Jesus. I mustn't be angry, he counseled himself. She's no more than a child, and she's just buried her mother, who was being betrayed by her father. It might take a few days before she returns to normal.
There was a knock on the door, and suddenly she entered, wearing a dress that looked as if she'd been rolling in the dirt. “What happened to you?” he asked.
“I took a walk, became sleepy, and lay on the ground. It was restful, and I fell asleep.”
“You're lucky an Apache didn't kidnap you.”
“I would hardly consider myself a lucky person, after today. Anyway, I apologize for losing my temper earlier, but you know how much I loved my mother. If you don't mind, I'll need my own room until my year of mourning is over.”
“I understand, of course,” he replied with a little bow. There was something different about her, and it wasn't just her dirty dress and the blush on her cheeks, as if she were wearing rouge. No, she had a confidence and presence that he'd never seen before. This is how death can bring maturity to a woman, he considered. “I hope you're not going to chastise your father further. He's been drinking heavily ever since you raked him over the coals.”
“I hope he drinks himself to death,” she said level-ly, “and now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to take that bath.”
Doña Consuelo walked toward the door like Carlota, former Empress of Mexico, instead of a humble nun rat-ding her rosary beads. It's time she grew up, Don Carlos decided, as she departed in a swirl of dirty skirts. There was something sluttish on her smudged features that he liked. Perhaps, after a decent period of mourning ...
Duane returned to the hacienda by a side entrance, and moved silently toward his room, as the black bat of Catholic guilt followed wherever he went. I poured mescal down a married woman's throat, and whispered sweet nothings into her ear. Then, when she didn't know where she was, I tore off her clothes and practically raped her. My God, what's wrong with me?
He entered his room, crossed to the balcony, and gazed at the star-spangled sky. I should be locked in prison where I can't harm innocent women, he admonished himself. But he had to admit, despite his wicked, wicked ways, it had been a great pleasure. And besides, he cogitated, she really didn't drink that much, and I meant every word I said. No one could say that I forced her, and if she were happily married, it never would've happened in the first place. What have I really done wrong?
The more women Duane met, the less he understood them. They were always irrational, in his estimation. Doña Consuelo de Rebozo, a religious married woman, had lain naked on the desert with a drifter and outlaw whom she barely knew.
Am I really in love with her? he asked himself. But it doesn't matter, because in the cold light of day, with her maids waiting on her, she's not riding off into the desert with the likes of me. Women are loco, but they're not that loco.
Ex-sheriff J. T. Sturgis leaned against the back wall of the Last Chance Saloon, and observed a performance by Miss Vanessa Fontaine. He noted that her every movement was calculated to produce an effect, and each eye in the house watched avidly, as she manipulated them cleverly.
Sturgis couldn't help admiring her skill at casting a spell over the audience. If I didn't know better, I'd be in awe of her too, he admitted. She knows the good old songs, but she's just as bad as any common criminal, and if she gives me any backtalk, after I arrest the Pecos Kid, I'll lock her ass in jail too.
He imagined her in a cell, wearing rags, a frightened glint in her eyes. You fool all the others, but you don't fool me, Miss Vanessa Fontaine. One of these days, I'm a-gonna show you that the law is the law, God punishes the wicked, and judgment day is a-comin’ down on all of us.
Doña Consuelo lay amid steamy bubbles, her eyes closed, as warm water soothed the tissues of her body. She felt as though she'd been wrestling a wildcat, and couldn't believe some of the acts she'd performed with him.
I'm going to pay heavily for this, she thought fatalistically. I've dishonored my family and shown how weak my faith really is. But I'm in love with that Americano, or in lust with him, and can't think straight anymore.
Paradoxically, she'd never been so happy, excited and ecstatic, and she couldn't wait to see him again. How sinful can it be? she asked a painting of the Virgin. It would be different if I had children. I never should've married Don Carlos, but how could I know that one day Duane Braddock would come along?
She wished he could be in the tub with her, and they could soap each other. He must love me too, she believed, otherwise he wouldn't have done all those marvelous things. No, that
's not something you can pretend. It frightened her to know that she'd developed a deep compelling need for him. Yes, I'll run away with him to the ends of the earth, and the devil take the hindmost.
In the light of recent events, she viewed her father differently. He cheated on his spouse because he needed something, and so did I. Now she understood the weaknesses of the flesh, and couldn't help feeling sorry for her father. My mother should've been a nun, and Daddy should've married somebody else. Maybe God doesn't care about the petty things we do, as long as we don't hurt each other too badly. A new swamp of guilt engulfed her. My poor father is suffering because of me, and I'm no better than an alley cat.
She emerged from the tub, maids toweled her gently, and she put on a blue silk sleeping gown, then a white velvet hooded robe. She made her way down the corridor to her father's bedroom, a chill came over her, and she feared that he'd killed himself over her cruel insults.
An additional ton of guilt fell over her, and she staggered beneath the weight. The poor man—how he must have suffered from my false sanctimonious pride. She closed her eyes and uttered: “Lord, I hope that nothing has happened to him.”
She knocked on the door, there was no answer, and she turned the knob. The room was dark, her father slouched in a chair, a bottle of brandy and a glass on the low mahogany table before him. She lit a lamp, and was shocked by his disarray, with his shirt half-unbuttoned, a stain on his pants, and a ghostly pallor on his cheeks. He looked as though he were wallowing in the lower depths of hell.
“Daddy,” she said. “Can you hear me?” His eyelashes fluttered vaguely, as she knelt before him, taking his hand in hers. “Daddy, I'm sorry for what I said earlier. We're all weak vessels, and if I told you some of the things I've done recently, you'd never believe it.”
He didn't say anything, but a tear appeared at the corner of his eye. A sob escaped his lips, as he reached for his daughter. They embraced, and Doña Consuelo had the strange feeling that her mother was hovering above, as the family of sinners became reconciled.
