by Tess LeSue
“Stop fussing.”
“I’m not fussing, I’m helping.”
“I don’t need help. I just need you to be quiet for five minutes.”
She managed two. Maybe less. “You know I’m a nun. You can let me help you. My whole life is devoted to helping people.” It might be a lie, but it sounded so good she just about believed it. She started feeling quite righteous. “Helping people is what I do.” It was kind of true, when you thought about it. She’d helped whole towns full of men in her time . . .
“Well, you ain’t very good at it.”
“I beg your pardon?” She gave up all pretense of keeping her back turned. “I happen to be wonderful at it.”
“You’re the reason I’m shot. That ain’t particularly helpful.”
That was just utter nonsense. He was the one who hadn’t been able to keep his pistol in its holster. She would have told him so too, and in no uncertain words, if Calla hadn’t chosen that moment to tell them they were approaching the hacienda.
“The what?” Tom frowned at her. “What did she say? Where are we going?”
She pursed her lips. Hell. Surely, he’d heard Calla translate the vaqueros? Come to think of it, he didn’t even need the translation—he spoke Spanish. He must have heard? Oh God. She didn’t fancy his reaction to this . . .
She cleared her throat. “We’re going to Don Rey’s hacienda,” she said brightly. Sometimes saying bad things in a cheerful voice worked. You could turn people right around into thinking that a bad thing was a good thing. Although, judging by his face, perhaps not this time . . . Oh well. If cheerfulness didn’t work, going on the offensive might. “Don’t go pulling that face at me,” she said, changing her tone. “You knew where we were going. You heard the vaqueros. You were right here when it was organized.”
“I was a little preoccupied,” he growled. “Goddamn it, woman, we’re trying to avoid Don Rey, not be his houseguests. The man knows me. He’s going to see right through this stupid disguise.” He’d gone an alarming chalky color.
Hell. He hadn’t stanched the bleeding at all. She ignored him as he railed at her about Don Rey and the hacienda. Let him get it out of his system. So long as he didn’t set his blood pumping out faster and bleed himself to death. She found some more cloth to use as a makeshift bandage and shoved his hands out of the way.
“What are you doing?”
“What I should have done before, instead of letting you botch things; I’m helping you.” She pressed the cloth to the wound. “Hold that down hard,” she ordered him.
“I wasn’t botching anything,” he protested. But he held it down. As best he could; he was going a bit limp.
“Don’t you pass out on me,” she warned as she found an old petticoat. She dug out the sewing basket and found the scissors. “Make sure you’re pressing hard.”
“How are you going to make sure he doesn’t recognize me?” he asked. His voice had that papery sound again.
“Stop talking,” she said as she took the scissors to the petticoat. “Save your energy and let me worry about hiding you.”
“Let me guess,” he sighed, sounding weaker by the minute, “you have a plan.”
“It’s an excellent plan,” she agreed, manhandling him as she wrapped the makeshift petticoat bandages around his hips, binding the cloth tight to the wound. The bleeding did seem to be slowing.
“God help me,” he sighed, leaning back against the trunk as she tied off the bandage.
“He did,” she said. “He sent you me.”
Tom Slater groaned and closed his eyes.
“Don’t pass out until I get your veil back on,” she told him.
But of course he did. The man was as contrary as they came.
She managed to get him presentable enough as they approached the gates of the hacienda. She’d pulled his gown back down over his blood-sodden wool trousers and pinned the veil into place. Her makeshift bandage worked a treat, and as far as she could see, the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. She made him as comfortable as she could and then climbed over the luggage to talk to Calla and Anna.
“Oh my, that’s nice,” she said when Anna unknotted the canvas and pulled it open so Emma could lean through. The rush of fresh air cleared Emma’s head immediately. She leaned over the back of the wagon bench, resting on her elbows between Calla and Anna. She gave Winnie a wink, and the girl almost smiled. The poor kid was buckled as tight as a miser’s saddlebags. Scenes like today’s shooting weren’t helping to unbuckle her any. “Oh my,” Emma said again, when she caught sight of the hacienda over the mules’ heads, “that’s nice.”
The Spanish-style gateway was topped with a bell, which a servant boy rang vigorously to announce the visitors. The gateway framed the hacienda, which was about the most magnificent thing Emma had ever seen. Against a backdrop of mountains chased gold by the end-of-day sun, the hacienda was blue and cool. It was a three-story building of archways and tiled stairs, with curlicue iron balconies and shadowed windows. The stucco was painted cobalt blue with snow-white trim and glowed in the shadows of the lush garden. It was magical, like stumbling on a fairy garden. There were palms and bright flowers, peacocks and parrots; there were fountains splashing and children running through the front courtyard. Fat orange hens pecked at the earth, and lazy dogs slept on the warm tiles.
“This is just about the nearest thing I’ve seen to Heaven,” Emma said, amazed.
“Me too,” Calla agreed.
“Who knew this was out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Do you think we’ll be able to bathe?” Anna asked. “Those fountains look tempting.”
“God, I hope so,” Emma laughed. “We’re all overripe.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” Calla reminded her. “Especially here—they’re all Catholic.”
“I can see that.” Emma’s gaze lingered on the cross on top of the domed roof at the side of the courtyard.
They followed the vaqueros into the beauty of the hacienda’s front courtyard, the wagon rattling on the wide cobbled drive. The temperature dropped as they passed into the garden. Droplets from the fountain cooled the air. It was divine.
“I guess that’s Don Rey,” Emma said, as a man stepped out onto the front steps. He was impeccably dressed. Aristocratic. More than a little intimidating. But Emma had a good feeling about him; anyone who built an oasis as beautiful as this had to be a good person.
Tom groaned in the depths of the wagon behind her. He clearly didn’t share her enthusiasm for the place.
“What are we doing about him?” Calla asked. She looked worried.
Emma patted her on the back. “Don’t worry. Leave it to me.”
She ignored the fact that Calla didn’t seem soothed. Tom moaned again, and she told him to shush.
“Anna, can you and Winnie look after Doña Elvira while I speak to our hosts?” she said loudly, so the vaqueros could hear her. Then she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Make sure his veil stays on and he’s completely covered.”
Anna nodded.
“Calla,” she whispered, leaning close to her friend, “can you come with me and make sure I sound like a proper nun?”
Calla sighed. “Why don’t you let me do the talking? The more you try to sound like a nun, the less you do. Besides, they may not even speak English.”
“Just make sure you tell them that Doña Elvira is recovering from the pox as well as the gunshot . . . well, it’s more of a graze than a gunshot . . . and tell them she’s man-shy and modest . . . Actually, tell them she doesn’t like people . . . except for me . . .”
Calla rolled her eyes. “I’ll make sure you and the good señora have privacy, but I’m not spinning stupid tales.”
“They’re not stupid. And they’ve worked so far.” Emma didn’t like relinquishing control, but she had to admit that Calla did a marvelous jo
b of things. She didn’t understand a word of what her friend said, but Don Rey and his wife certainly seemed to. They had the most sympathetic expressions Emma had ever seen. Doña Maria actually seemed to blink back tears, and Don Rey took it as a personal affront that daughters of Christ had been assaulted on his land.
“He says he will see to their punishment personally,” Calla translated.
“Oh. Well, do remind him about God liking mercy. Right?”
Calla gave her a pinched look and then translated. A moment later, she translated Don Rey’s reply: “He says, ‘The Bible also speaks of an eye for an eye.’”
“Oh well. Yes. I guess it does.” Emma frowned. “But there’s a whole bit after that, when Jesus came along.”
Calla leaned in close. “Just stop talking now,” she said, very quietly. “They may speak some English.”
Emma bit her tongue, even though she had more to say on the subject of mercy. Also, she was feeling dreadfully guilty about the Georges. While she knew in her gut that they were horrid men, they hadn’t actually done anything . . . yet. She hoped that Don Rey wasn’t going to do anything too drastic to them. Uneasily, she watched him follow the vaqueros as they led the Georges away.
“Doña Maria says it is their honor to host sisters of charity,” Calla told Emma as the mistress of the hacienda descended the stairs to organize transferring Doña Elvira to a makeshift stretcher. Emma rushed to help, so she could hold Tom’s veil in place.
“I’m the only one she trusts,” she gabbled as she stuck close to the stretcher.
“I told her the señora is sensitive about her disfigurement,” Calla said after she’d finished translating Emma’s chatter, “and that the señora has taken a vow of silence after her husband’s death. I’ve suggested the señora be left exclusively to your care.”
So she had told some “stupid tales” after all. Emma felt smug. Now Calla might give her some credit and understand how a stupid tale was entirely necessary now and again. Emma thought she’d done a great job keeping everyone safe so far. Well. Except for the whole Tom getting shot thing.
“Pobrecita,” Doña Maria cooed, smiling at Emma and patting Tom’s arm as she escorted the makeshift stretcher into the house. The mistress of the hacienda was as cool and lovely as her house. Emma prayed Tom didn’t startle her by moaning. He didn’t sound the slightest bit womanly.
If she’d thought the hacienda was beautiful on the outside, she was stunned by the interior. Built around a central courtyard, the house was high ceilinged and lusciously cool, full of archways and filtered light. Mosaics swirled on the floors, and chandeliers glittered overhead. Everywhere she looked, there were things growing: tall ferns in brass urns; pink, red and white geraniums in terra-cotta pots spilling down stairways and nestled in arches; great swathes of white and purple bougainvillea draped like bunting around the central courtyard. The air was perfumed with mock orange flowers and water and hot terra-cotta tiles.
There were servants everywhere Emma looked: sweeping and gardening, dusting and scrubbing. All of them were young. And they all looked to be Indian. Passing them as they wound through the hacienda, Emma had her first moment of unease. Doña Maria led them through the main entry hall and up a stairway to the second floor. She and Calla chatted in Spanish while Anna and Winnie followed along nervously behind. Tom stirred on the stretcher. Emma reached down and took his hand, and his fingers curled around hers.
“Hush,” she said, bending down. “The señora is taking us to a room where I can see to you in private.”
He squeezed her hand. Rather too hard in Emma’s opinion. He just about ground her bones together.
Doña Maria opened a door and gestured the stretcher through.
“She says you and the señora shall stay here,” Calla said in a hushed voice, as she and Emma stood awed, taking in the luxury of the room. “We’ll be just next door . . . I hope our room looks like this . . .”
The room was huge and just as beautiful as the rest of the house. The floors were polished wood, splashed here and there with finely woven Mexican rugs; tapestries hung from the walls, softening the austerity of the white adobe; and there was a gigantic wooden bed, hung with a white muslin canopy, to keep out the mosquitos. A small sitting area had been arranged facing the double doors, which Doña Maria opened, to allow fresh air in. The sound of the fountain below drifted up, bringing with it the perfume of water. Oh my, Emma thought, this place was nicer than even the fanciest whorehouse.
And the views. The windows opposite the bed framed a majestic view of the mountains. They were lusciously purple as dusk drew in. You’d never get out of bed with a view like that.
“Doña Maria says she will have a pallet delivered for you to sleep on.”
Oh. A pallet. Emma gave the enormous, pillowy bed a longing look. She saw the sense in it, of course, as her roommate was gravely injured, but she had to swallow her disappointment as the men lowered Tom onto the bed. She would have liked the big bed for herself, with the canopy and the view.
She noticed Tom left a smear of blood on the luxurious white comforter. “He’ll get blood all over the bedding,” Emma said, worried.
“She says not to fret. The servants will bring fresh bedding once you have seen to the wound.”
Poor servants, Emma thought, pulling a face. Tom Slater was about to make an awful mess in here.
“The servants will be up directly with water and bandages and your bedding. She wants to know if there’s anything else you need.”
Emma shook her head. She was eager to get everyone out so she could check on Tom. She thanked Doña Maria profusely as she left. Emma could see that Calla was already getting impatient translating back and forth, so she cheekily threw in a few more “thank-yous” than necessary, just to tease her. Calla didn’t seem to appreciate the humor of it.
Once they were gone, Emma locked the door behind them, then hurried to close the balcony doors and draw the curtains, so no one would see a man emerge from under the señora’s gown. She turned to the bed with a grin, waiting for Tom to express his gratitude. But did he express his gratitude? No. Instead, all he did was bitch at her. Within ten minutes of being alone with him, she wished she’d left him to Doña Maria after all. “Poor Doña Elvira” wasn’t a pobrecita at all, whatever the hell that was, Emma thought crankily. She was just an ungrateful, bullheaded cowpuncher.
“It’s not my fault you got shot!” Emma felt like wringing his neck. He was the worst patient she’d ever had. “And it’s not even a proper wound,” she told him imperiously. “It’s barely a graze.”
“I’m missing half my hip,” he growled. His green eyes were fierce in his white face.
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“How would you know if I’m being dramatic?” Tom snapped at her after she’d maligned his bullet graze. “You ain’t seen it properly!”
“Only because you won’t let me.” She drew a calming breath. It didn’t help. She’d been through a difficult day too. He should damn well remember that. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me look at it.”
He glared at her.
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said primly.
He didn’t look like he believed her. The idiot had no idea. She’d seen more naked men than she cared to count. Probably more gunshots too.
“I’ll look after myself,” he said stubbornly.
“Fine. You do that. But don’t come crying to me when you pass out and hit your head.”
“Turn your back.”
“Again?” With a show of poor grace, she ostentatiously turned her back on him.
“You locked the door?” He sounded surlier than ever.
“You saw me do it.”
He grunted. She heard the sound of him struggling to get the dress off.
“You want me to undo the buttons for you?” She kept her
tone polite. Because she was a nice person.
“No.”
Give her strength. “You won’t get it off if you don’t undo the buttons.”
There was the sound of cloth tearing.
“Tom Slater!” Emma whipped around in horror as she took in the mess he’d made of the gown. “How dare you! What are you going to wear now?”
“Who told you to turn around?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” He’d gone a nasty shade of clay white. His hip was bloody, and he was tangled in a mess of torn fabric. “That’s quite enough.” She stalked over to the bed, which was as huge and impressive as everything else in the room. She had to climb up to even reach him. “Keep still!” She made short work of the buttons down his back, giving him a sharp smack when he tried to fight her. Then she yanked the ruined dress over his head, unmindful of his wound. He gave a pained howl.
“Hush up,” she said, throwing the dress on the chair. “If you keep that racket up, everyone from here to Mexico will know you’re a man.” She tried to roll up her sleeves, but they were big loose things and kept flopping down again. “If you must scream, at least make it high-pitched.”
He was covered with a sheen of perspiration and was obviously running out of the energy to fight her. Good. Perhaps now he’d listen to sense.
“You,” she said, jabbing her finger at him, “are going to do everything I tell you to do, do you hear? I’m in charge.”
There was a knock at the door. Hell. He was half-naked. No one was mistaking that wide, hairy chest for a woman’s.
“Get under the comforter,” she ordered. She yanked it out from under him. “Pull it over your head.”
He could barely move, so she helped him.
“Stay still,” she hissed. “And don’t you dare say a word.” She pulled the white mosquito curtains closed around the bed. They were sheer, but they were better than nothing. She made sure she couldn’t see anything of him but a lump under the comforter before she opened the door. This lying business was hard on the nerves. Her heart was galloping like a herd of runaway horses.
