Shadows of the Heart

by Lorena McCourtney

  Trish laughed at herself shakily, reminding herself again that Marc had absolutely no reason to harm her, much less murder her. She might not be his idea of the perfect dinner date, since she certainly lacked Ramona de Cordoba’s extravagant beauty and sophistication, but that was hardly a crime worthy of death, even to the arrogant, aristocratic Marcantonio de la Barca.

  Trish jumped up and busied herself straightening the room. It was a beautiful day and she was not going to lie around and dwell on wild suspicions. The thought did occur to her that sound carried a long distance on the mountain. Perhaps the gunshots were nowhere nearly as close as she had imagined and their effect on the horse really just an unfortunate accident.

  Edith lunched with her father and came around later to thank Trish rather awkwardly for her cooperation concerning the pool. The seamstress came that afternoon. Trish brought out the lace she had chosen and made a quick sketch of how the pattern could be altered to give an elegant rather than frilly effect. Edith seemed truly grateful, remarking in embarrassment that she had no sense of style at all. Trish’s heart went out to her, thinking how difficult it must have been growing up in a motherless household. Later they discussed food and drink for the wedding reception. Edith even blushingly asked Trish’s opinion of honeymoon locations.

  It was a pleasant afternoon and the next few days passed equally pleasantly. Trish worked the soreness out of her muscles by exercising in the pool, and the cuts and scratches were healing nicely. There was a growing excitement in the air as the fiesta approached. Trish could sense it among the servants and she found herself looking forward to it with rising anticipation too.

  The fiesta was just something new and different, she assured herself. The chance that she might see Marc again had nothing to do with her anticipation. She had to admit she was rather disappointed that he had made no effort to see or contact her again since the day of her disaster on the mountain. A few casual inquiries to Edith—though Trish suspected Edith knew the inquiries were not all that casual—brought the information that Marc was probably very involved in the fiesta plans. He usually furnished meat for the asado and prizes for the various contests and games. Armando, Edith added with pride, was providing a magnificent fireworks display this year and would be setting it off himself.

  On the opening day of the three-day fiesta Edith and Trish took the older car Edith used around the plantation and drove to the village immediately after breakfast to be sure of arriving in time for the parade. Armando had to drive into San Jose to pick up the last of the fireworks for the evening display. Trish saw many groups of people making their way up the steep, crooked road to the village, but there was no sign of Marc.

  Edith parked the car in a cleared area just before reaching the village, remarking laughingly that later on the one main street was usually so thronged with people that it was impossible to drive through. They walked from the car. The village was larger than Trish had realized. The frame houses were modest but neat and comfortable looking, with bright flowers in tin-can pots decorating the steps and porches. Chickens, dogs, and children wandered freely, and there was the occasional bleat of a goat or squeal of a pig. In the distance near the church, Trish could see the parade forming.

  A small reviewing stand of board seats had been erected for important people. Edith and Trish found places about halfway up, Trish sitting on the outside edge. Edith introduced Trish to the wives of several other plantation-farm-owners in the surrounding area. There was animated discussion about the coming wedding that brought the flattering glow of pleasure and excitement to Edith’s face and made her plain features handsome. Her love for Armando was written all over her whenever his name was mentioned. And how marvelous that that love was returned, Trish thought, feeling momentarily depressed, though she couldn’t explain why.

  The parade was late getting started, which no one seemed to find surprising. It finally began solemnly with at least ten men carrying a platform on which rested in colorful splendor an effigy of the patron saint of the village. Edith explained that once a year it was carried to the spring that supplied water for all the village and then carried back at the end of the fiesta. This was, in fact, what the fiesta was all about.

  But once the platform was safely deposited, the solemnity ended and an exuberant almost reckless air took over. A flamboyant marimba band set the tone. A clown pranced along the sidelines, amusing the excited children. There was a flower-decorated float of pretty girls. Bells jangled, dogs barked, and roosters crowed. Then came the oxcarts, this a bit more serious because they were being judged and a large prize was at stake. The oxcarts were decorated with incredibly intricate paintings, the solid wooden wheels a sunburst blaze of colors, the car sides a swirl of flowers, vines, and geometric designs. The wheels made a peculiar creaking noise that Edith said was called “the song of the axle.” The oxen, yoked so they pulled the carts with their powerful heads and necks, plodded along, ignoring the commotion around them.

  Then a sound like an admiring “ahhh” went up from the crowd and Trish saw why. The horses and riders were coming, the horses not merely walking but dancing with the excitement of the crowds and music. The horses were decorated with silver on their bridles and saddles, colorful hangings covering their chests and flanks, bells jangling, riders costumed as dashing conquistadors.

  One horse and rider was less glitteringly attired than the others, but the magnificence of the horse and the rider’s aristocratic stature made them stand out. Trish caught her breath. Marc and Demonio! The procession halted and Demonio, his head high, looked around contemptuously, like a king surveying the peasants. A dog started to yap at his heels, thought better of it, and retreated to tease a less dangerous target. Marc sat on the powerful horse with the ease of a born horseman, his expert hands keeping the high-strung animal under control. His dark eyes were shadowed by the wide brim of his low-crowned black hat.

  Trish inspected him freely from her safely anonymous position on the crowded stand. The children were looking up at Marc and the majestic stallion with a kind of awe. Trish tried not to feel it too, to remind herself that he was just another man, but she might have been looking back into time at some conquering aristocrat.

  Suddenly her heart pounded as she realized her position was not so anonymous after all. Marc’s head turned in her direction and his eyes caught hers. A faint smile curved his sensuous mouth and he touched his hat slightly in salute. Trish nodded in recognition. The parade resumed its forward progress but the chestnut stallion pranced to the side, children scattering in all directions.

  Trish could now see the dark eyes under the shadowy brim, a light dancing in them that both thrilled and dismayed her. What did he want? He was making his way toward her, the dancing stallion held like a wound spring ready to uncoil.

  “Seňorita!” he greeted her with a flashing smile.

  She dipped her head in acknowledgment, aware everyone was looking at them. Suddenly a powerful arm shot out and encircled her shoulders, pulling her toward him. Trish’s lips parted as she looked into his darkly handsome face and laughing eyes. And then, before she could protest, his mouth met hers in a kiss that sent her heart hammering and mind spinning. She was dimly aware that people were applauding around them. Trish clutched the rough seat for support as Marc touched his hat in salute and then galloped forward to take his place in the parade. For a moment pure fury flooded through Trish. How dare he make a spectacle of her, using her to entertain the crowd like the silly antics of the clown, everyone watching, smiling, applauding as if it were some sort of amusing sideshow.

  “Don’t look now, but you’re the envy of every unmarried girl present. And probably half the married ones too!” Edith whispered.

  Trish drew a shaky breath and glanced around, suddenly realizing it would be better to laugh off the incident than to let anyone know how deeply it had affected her. She smiled and waved and people eventually turned back to watching the colorful parade. But Trish hardly saw anything. All she coul
d see were those laughing, dancing eyes; all she could feel was herself melting under his kiss, the taste of his mouth on hers.

  Edith had to nudge her when the parade was over. “I’m going to go see if Armando has arrived with the fireworks yet. Would you like to come with me?”

  “I think I’ll just wander around and look at everything,” Trish demurred. She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, that she was hoping to see Marc.

  Edith gave Trish a glance that was both sympathetic and concerned. “Don’t expect too much,” she said hesitantly. “Marc can be devastatingly charming when he’s interested in a woman, but he can also be… unfeeling when he tires of her.”

  Unfeeling. Translate that ruthless and cruel, Trish thought to herself, but all she said was a light, “I can take care of myself.”

  Edith went looking for Armando, and Trish wandered through the colorful crowd thronging the street. Booths selling food had been set up. The clown bounced around on a comically sad burro. Something exploded near Trish’s ear, freezing her motionless for a moment in memory of a similar noise, until she realized it was only a harmless balloon popped by some over-exuberant youngster. Now that was enough of that, she told herself firmly. She wasn’t going to let every little noise send her into a frightened dither.

  Trish wandered on, enjoying it all. She paused to watch a contest of children exhibiting their pets, everything from a recalcitrant pig to a parrot chattering loudly in Spanish. It was like a county fair back in Minnesota, she thought a bit breathlessly. She paused again, surprised and delighted to find a puppet show in progress. The dialogue was all in Spanish, too rapid for her to understand, but the slapstick action was humorous in any language.

  Suddenly she saw a tall figure striding along the street, his head moving above the crowd as if he were looking for someone. Through a break in the crowd she saw that he had changed his clothes, that he was now wearing the more familiar tan pants, boots, and expensive shirt carelessly open at the throat.

  She stood stock still, fighting the urge to call his name. Then his dark eyes settled on her and he pushed his way toward her. She tried to quiet the singing of her heart, but it was like trying to quiet a chattering bird. He had been looking for her!

  He tilted his head quizzically to one side, his dark eyes appraising. “Angry?”

  “I should be.”

  He stood there, arrogantly sure of himself, a look of lazy amusement on his face. “If you aren’t too angry to eat, I’ll buy you some lunch,” he offered.

  For a moment Trish hesitated, remembering the doubts that had assailed her a few mornings ago. His knowledge of the horse’s insane fear of gunshots, the opportunity to use that knowledge…

  “You’re looking very serious,” he commented with a raised eyebrow. “No one is serious at fiesta time.”

  Knowledge and opportunity but no reason, she reminded herself firmly as she eyed his lean figure lounging carelessly against the puppet stand. Lack of a reason made any suspicions of him preposterous.

  “I’m just trying to decide if I care to eat lunch with a man who goes around embarrassing innocent maidens,” she said tartly.

  His eyebrow rose again. “That was an innocent kiss?”

  Trish flushed, remembering how she had responded to his embrace. He stepped closer and lifted her chin with his finger, the teasing laughter in his eyes replaced by a searing intensity. The crowd flowed around them unnoticed.

  “That kiss was only the beginning,” he said softly. “We’ll finish it later.”

  His physical effect on her was instantaneous, as always, and she knew she would have melted into his arms right there on the crowded street. But he supported her with a bracing hand on her arm, his voice casual when he repeated, “Now, about that lunch?”

  They ate empanadas, delicious little meat pies, washed down with a refresco of fresh tangerine juice and a mango-flavored sherbet for dessert. Trish had an unfamiliar, heady feeling that seemed to intensify each of her senses, though when Marc walked with her hand tucked through the crook of his elbow, she was conscious of little else but the feel of his powerful body next to hers.

  After eating they watched the children’s contests and games, laughed at contestants vainly trying to climb a greased pole and grab the money prize stationed at the top. Trish applauded when a slim little girl suddenly darted forward and captured the coveted prize, much to the chagrin of the perspiring young men. Marc shook his head in mock exasperation at this turn of events.

  After that came the bullfights. At first Trish protested that she did not want to see them, never having approved of the torment and killing of an innocent animal in the guise of sport or entertainment. But Costa Rican bullfights, she found out, were different.

  There was one bull but many toreros with capes. And there was no killing.

  The arena was set up around a pool of water with a pole in the middle. The bull seemed to have the best of the game. The bullfighters usually wound up seeking sanctuary in the pool, and if the bull was unusually angry or the bullfighter exceptionally frightened, there was sometimes a hasty climb up the pole. The bullfight ended when the bull lost interest and became bored with chasing people. Then another bull was run in until eventually everyone was too exhausted to continue. Trish left that contest approving of the Costa Rican idea of how to conduct a bullfight—so that both human and animal participants lived to enjoy another day.

  There was only one less-than-enjoyable incident that happy afternoon. Someone had set up a shooting gallery with targets cut from shiny tin cans. Marc looked inquiringly at Trish as they sauntered past. Long ago Trish had shot at the crows that robbed her grandfather’s garden. Now she shrugged and picked up one of the small guns, knocking over a fairly respectable seven out of ten tin-can targets. Then Marc picked up the gun, aimed quickly and expertly, and in quick succession hit all ten targets. He nodded at the proprietor to set the targets up again and just as quickly downed all ten again.

  Trish watched, dismayed, her muscles tensing nervously. One of the deeper cuts from that fall into the mountain crater suddenly began to throb painfully. Marc obviously knew how to handle a gun efficiently and expertly. And just as obvious was his deadly accuracy. Again that unwanted thought: Marc knew about the gelding’s violent reaction to the sound of gunshots…

  “Such a frown,” Marc chided lightly as he handed the gun back to the proprietor of the stand. “I didn’t know you were such a poor loser.”

  Trish managed a noncommittal reply, but the incident left her with an unpleasant aftertaste. She wished they had never gone near the shooting gallery. She tried to push the thought out of her mind, reminding herself of how illogical and preposterous it was to be suspicious of Marc, but her uneasy doubts remained. Charming and exciting as Marc was, what did she really know about him except that he had a ruthless obsession with reuniting the two parts of the cafetal into one again, that deep-down he felt he had a hereditary right to the property, and that he could be ruthless where women were concerned?

  “I haven’t seen Edith all afternoon,” Trish finally said uneasily. “Perhaps I should go and find her.”

  “If you wish. Perhaps she will join us for the asado.”

  Asado. Oh, yes, the barbecue for which Marc supplied the meat, Trish remembered.

  They strolled around, even walking over to the car, but saw nothing of Edith until Marc spotted her helping Armando set up the evening fireworks display on the far side of the village soccer field. Armando was evidently trying to show Edith how to do something, and from the impatient way he stood with hands on hips, he was exasperated at her lack of understanding.

  “Shall we go and offer our assistance?” Marc asked dryly.

  Trish had to laugh, knowing he was not serious and knowing also what sort of reaction such an improbable offer would bring from Armando. “Some other time,” she said lightly.

  They returned to the main street then. The evening air cooled rapidly as the sun went down, but the crowd’s enth
usiasm and exuberance seemed to provide their own warmth. Marc and Trish (she seemed to be accepted as his partner for the moment) were served first from the asado. The meat was succulent roast pork, and there were tasty beans and rice, salads, and more cool, refreshing sherbet for dessert. Sitting in the place of honor with Marc, Trish did not see either Edith or Armando come through the line of hungry eaters. She wasn’t really surprised. Armando would probably rather starve than eat anything provided by Marc.

  Then came the music and dancing, first an exhibition of swirling-skirted girls and dashing young men whirling through an intricate series of local dances. Afterward everyone danced to the rhythmic beat, though Marc did not seem interested in taking part. He merely sat, nodding approvingly now and then or calling a compliment to some smiling couple dancing by. He seemed relaxed, but now and then Trish thought she detected a hint of impatience in his solid grip on her hand.

  Finally he glanced down at her, the torchlights set up to illuminate the street flickering in his dark eyes. “Tired?” he asked lightly.

  “A little.” She smiled. “But happy.”

  He stood up, pulling her with him. Unobtrusively, talking and greeting people as they moved along the street, Marc effectively worked their way to the edge of the crowd, his grip on Trish dragging her firmly with him.

  “Wait!” Trish cried breathlessly, struggling to keep up. “What are we doing? Where are we going?”

  He didn’t answer. He pushed her into the dark, empty shadows behind the viewing stand. He cupped her face in his hands, his fingers tangled in her hair, and Trish’s heart pounded with the suddenness and intensity of the caress. Her back was to the street and the torchlights flickered on his face, emphasizing its lean, aristocratic lines, but revealing something far more basic, something almost savagely male as he looked down at her.