CHAPTER 12
“Well, for heaven’s sake! Is that Bertha I hear outside? It’s barely daylight.”
Willem looked up from slipping on his boot and grimaced. “Who else would be cackling? It’s too early for the chickens.”
Magda pushed open the patio door and searched the dimly lit grounds below. She followed another loud burst of laugher to where Bertha jumped up and down in the middle of the backyard, holding her side.
Catching a touch of her mirth, Magda grinned. “What’s so funny, Bertha?”
Bertha stood with Diego’s mother. The drawn-up, somber little woman who served them supper the night before had gone, replaced by a woman with a gleeful expression and dancing eyes.
Bertha pointed. “Look up yonder. On that windmill.”
Magda squinted and gazed across the yard. She could just make out the unmistakable shape of a saddle horn and stirrups outlined in the early dawn sky. “Why, that’s a saddle! Come see this, Willem. Somebody saddled a windmill.”
Emmy stepped onto the balcony from her room. “What’s all the commotion out here? They can hear you in Humble.”
Diego bounded off the porch beneath them and smiled up at her. “I’m afraid it’s my fault.” He pointed behind him. “That’s a grievous act of retribution directed at me.”
“It’s his saddle,” Bertha cried, obviously privy to the whole explanation. “His men did it to get him back for what he done to them.”
Smiling, Willem snorted. “Whatever he did, it must’ve been bad.”
A sheepish look crept over Diego’s face. “I guess it all depends on how you look at it. All I did was sweeten their morning ritual.”
Bertha winked up at Magda. “With a generous portion of molasses poured down each of their boots. They found out when they pulled them on.”
“A sleepy cowboy with sticky boots?” Magda nodded at the windmill. “Son, I’d say justice is served.”
A bell clanged, interrupting their fun and signaling breakfast.
Willem patted Magda’s shoulder. “Round up Bertha and come to the table. I’m starved.”
“You wait for me, Willem Dane. I’m hungry, too. Rounding up Bertha won’t take but a minute.” She placed two fingers in her mouth and blew.
Attuned to their signal, Bertha’s head jerked up.
Magda motioned with her arm. “Come along. You’re keeping me from breakfast.”
Bertha started for the house. “You won’t have to wait on me. I plan to beat you to the table.”
Diego stood staring up at Emmy.
Blushing, she flashed him a dimpled smile. “Are you coming, too?”
Greta Rawson eased from behind a trellis and slipped her arm around Mrs. Marcelo. It dawned on Magda that Greta had been standing there in the shadows all along. “He takes his breakfast at his mother’s table.” She fluttered her lashes. “Don’t you, Diego?”
Embarrassed, or maybe flushed with annoyance, Diego nodded then directed his answer at Emmy. “Yes, unless I dine at the bunkhouse. I don’t usually eat meals in the house.”
Emmy backed away from the rail. “Oh, I see.”
Diego took off his hat. “Enjoy your breakfast, Miss Dane.” He bowed toward Magda. “And you, Mrs. Dane.” His eyes cut back to Emmy. “Perhaps I’ll see you tonight.”
John Rawson opened the door under Magda’s balcony. She couldn’t see him but his booming voice rattled the boards at her feet. “You bet you’ll see her tonight. We’re going to a pachanga! You’re all invited.”
Magda guessed by the wide grin on Diego’s face that a pachanga was a good thing.
Bertha required an explanation. She caught Diego by the shirt and spun him around. “A what?”
“ Un partido mejicano, Mrs. Bloom.” He swept his mother into his arms and waltzed her around the yard as the first bursts of light announced the rising sun. “A rowdy Mexican party. We shall eat our fill and dance to a mariachi band.”
“Stop, Isi!” his mother cried, giggling like a girl. “I’m getting dizzy!”
He turned her loose and faced the porch. “Whose house, sir? And what is the occasion?”
“Jose Bosques. His daughter’s quince años.”
Diego’s face lit up even more. “A Quinceañera?” He snatched his unsuspecting mother from behind and whirled her again. “Then we shall dance all night!”
Willem tugged on Magda’s sleeve. “There’s a plate of ham and eggs downstairs with my name on it. You’ve kept me from my breakfast so long I won’t mind eating yours, too.”
She pushed away from the rail. “You won’t get the chance.” With one last whistle for Bertha, she followed Willem downstairs. At the bottom landing, she spoke her thoughts aloud. “Willem, what is a quince ... a quincea...? What is that thing they said?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, but the mention of it sure stirred things up.” They reached the table and he held out her chair, nodding a good morning to Rosita before she scurried back to the kitchen. “One thing’s for certain, dear. We’re about to find out.”
***
Emmy stood behind the wooden shutters, spying on Diego and Greta. Sneaking about and prying into people’s affairs was a habit Mama had worked diligently with Emmy to break. Emmy had tried to mend her ways but found opportunities too frequent and temptations too irresistible. Especially the one taking place in the yard below.
Greta leaned against the adobe wall of a shed, hands behind her back, staring up at Diego. He rested against the wall, too, a respectable distance between them. Greta wore a cotton dress, pale yellow like the ribbon in her hair. Unless Emmy judged her too harshly, she’d spent some time in her mirror tugging the neckline down—not enough to be scandalous but enough to reveal a circle of milky white skin.
Diego’s earlier irritation had vanished with the morning dew. He was at ease with Greta, laughing and talking freely, the latter punctuated by pointing, waving, and gesturing with his hands. He seemed in such high spirits, Emmy waited for him to pull Greta into his arms and dance her about the yard. She couldn’t help wondering if it was the upcoming party or being with Greta that caused his mood.
His head jerked around to her window as if attracted by sudden motion.
Emmy eased out of sight, wondering what he had seen. Had she moved the shutter and given herself away? Blushing, she hurried to her dressing table, scolding herself for being caught at something she ought not to have been doing in the first place. Sighing, she realized a voice stronger than Mama’s had cautioned her to mind her own business. Wishing she’d learn to obey, Emmy whispered a prayer of repentance and one for the strength to change.
After one last glance in the mirror, she stepped into the hall and closed the bedroom door. As she turned to go, a growl from behind nearly jolted her from her shoes. Visions of claws and fangs and goats shriveled to wineskins flashed through her mind as she spun toward the shadows. “Who’s there?”
“If it’s all the same to you, we can do without slamming doors.”
Emmy took a step closer. “Cuddy? Is that you?”
Another moan. “There’s no need to shout either.”
She smiled. “I’m not shouting. Are you all right?”
He groaned again.
Emmy followed the sound to the dark corner and found him sitting on the floor hugging his knees, his head hanging down. She sat beside him, tucking her legs beneath her and covering them with her skirt. “Is there anything I can do?”
He groped for her hand and held it.
Surprised, she let him. “Why do you do this to yourself, Cuddy? If drinking causes this, why drink?”
He shrugged. “It’s fun?”
She shook her head. “You weren’t having fun last night, and you’re certainly not now. This is more like punishment.” Emmy could see him clearly, now that she’d adjusted to the light.
He cut his eyes to her. “You may be onto something there.”
She pondered his confession then shook her head. “Why would you feel the
need to punish yourself? You’re a handsome young man with a wonderful family, a lovely home, and a thriving ranch.”
He perked up and grinned. “Handsome?”
“In short, you have everything a man could want.”
He snorted. “Miss Dane, ‘everything’ can be a pretty hefty burden at times. Especially when you’re born into a situation you never asked for.” He studied her with bleary eyes then hung his head again. “Or when there’s someone reminding you at every step that you’re not who you should be.” He pulled his hand away and wrapped it around his knees again. “But how could someone like you be expected to understand?”
Stunned, Emmy sat quietly, Papa’s scowling face looming in her mind. Her heart aching over their shared grief, she reached to caress his fingers. “I understand more than you know.”
He raised his head and quirked his brows. She nodded. Smiling sweetly, he twined his fingers around hers and squeezed.
“Emily!”
Emmy pushed off the floor, the stern face she’d envisioned glaring at her from three feet away. She hadn’t even heard his footsteps. “Sorry, Papa.” Her heart pounded so hard, she knew Cuddy was bound to hear.
He stood, too, and came to her defense. “Emily was tending me, Mr. Dane. That’s all. I’m feeling poorly this morning, and she was concerned.”
Papa’s bottom jaw stuck out, and his breath came in rapid gasps. He pointed behind him. “They’re holding breakfast for you downstairs, Emily. See how fast you can get there. We’ll deal with this shameless display after we eat.”
Emmy stumbled away, casting a nervous glance at Cuddy.
He stared after her with renewed understanding.
Papa herded her to the stairwell, a firm hand at her back. He paused at the landing and turned, his finger aimed at Cuddy like a weapon. “Keep your distance from my daughter, Cuthbert Rawson, or I shall have to speak to John.”
“Yes, sir,” Cuddy barked, his voice steady and strong.
More sad than frightened, Emmy followed her fuming papa down the stairs. Near the bottom, a gaily hummed tune floated back to her from inside the house. As they rounded the landing, the back of a yellow dress disappeared into the dining room through the arched doorway.
Emmy cringed. She wondered how much Greta had heard and how fast she would tell Diego. It seemed Emmy wasn’t the only snoop on the Twisted-R Ranch.
Jaunty footsteps on the stairs and a merry whistle announced Cuddy coming to join them at the table. He breezed through the door and took a seat, flapping his napkin with flair and placing it on his lap.
Astonished, Emmy stared. Evidently, his anger with Papa had shoved aside his misery.
His mother glanced up. “Good morning, Cuthbert.”
He grimaced. “Careful with the name-calling, Mother. You’ll spoil my good mood.”
The creases in Papa’s forehead grew impossibly deep. “I thought you were ill.” To the casual listener, his tone might be mistaken for concern. Emmy clearly heard the accusation.
Passing Aunt Bertha the gravy bowl, Mrs. Rawson paused. “Oh? Are you all right, son?”
Cuddy flashed Papa a brilliant smile. “Feeling much better now, Mr. Dane. Thanks to your lovely daughter.”
Papa blustered and took up his fork, going after his eggs as if they were Cuddy instead.
Emmy shrank five inches in her chair.
Stabbing his fork into a sizable slab of ham on the serving platter, Cuddy lifted his eyes to Mr. Rawson. “Miss Dane is interested in seeing the river, Father. I thought I might saddle a couple of horses and take her out there this morning.” He raised his brows innocently toward Emmy’s mama. “If it’s all right with her parents, of course.”
Papa tried to protest, but his mouth was full. He snatched up his coffee to take a drink, but he was too late.
“A splendid idea, son.” Mr. Rawson beamed at Emmy and then smiled across the table at his daughter. “Greta will go along to chaperone.”
This time Greta sputtered. “The river? Cuddy, there’s nothing remotely interesting about that muddy old cesspool. Why, it’s hardly worth the ride.” He ignored her so she directed her objections to her mother. “You know I don’t like the sun. It dries my skin.”
Mrs. Rawson shot her a weighted look. “You’ll be fine, Greta. Our guest would like to go.”
“Can Diego come along?”
Her mother drew back. “Greta Rawson! For pity’s sake.”
Caught with her knickers inside out, Greta lowered her eyes. “Sorry, Mother. It’s just that Diego’s so clever and fun. I thought he might make the trip more tolerable.”
“Greta!”
Her father held up his hand. “Hush, daughter. Diego is far too busy running this ranch to run off and play.”
“But you can spare Cuddy?”
Mr. Rawson tossed a tortilla onto his plate. “Cuddy’s a different story.”
Emmy checked for Cuddy’s reaction to his father’s words. He had none.
Taking advantage of the silence, Emmy’s papa cleared his throat. “John, I don’t think—”
“They’ll be fine, Willem. Don’t worry. Cuddy knows his way around.”
Papa cringed.
Emmy hid her grin behind her napkin. With the boldness of the falsely accused, Cuddy had called Papa’s bluff and won most handily. She had to wonder how long Cuddy’s victory would last. Willem Dane wasn’t used to losing.
Cuddy folded his napkin over his plate. “So it’s settled. We’d best get going while it’s cool. The ride won’t be tolerable in the heat of the day.”
His mother swept her arm over the table. “What about all this food? You’ve hardly touched your plates.”
“Have Rosita wrap it and we’ll take it with us.”
“A picnic?” She beamed. “How fun! You’ll have us wanting to join you.”
Cuddy stood. “I’m afraid old codgers aren’t invited, Mother dear.” Grinning, he kissed the top of her head. “Besides, you couldn’t keep up with us youngsters.”
CHAPTER 13
The Nueces River wound along the back of the Twisted-R Ranch, providing a source of fresh water and a natural boundary. Like an oasis in the desert, an assortment of trees grew along the banks, stretching in a line as far as the eye could see in either direction. As Emmy and the Rawsons drew closer, the sparse ground cover and mesquite gave way to lush green grass and live oak trees, a scene not unlike the banks of the San Jacinto River back home. It was hard to believe the two environments were part of the same landscape. Once Emmy thought about it, she realized the South Texas terrain had been as fickle as a female since she got off the train in Uvalde.
The horses picked up speed as they neared the slope, and Cuddy winked. “They smell the water.”
Emmy didn’t blame them. If she were on foot, she’d be trotting, too. If Cuddy considered the morning cool, she dreaded the ride home. The sun shone directly at them from above the eastern horizon, already so bright Emmy couldn’t bear it in her eyes. Greta had grudgingly lent her a straw hat that Emmy pulled low on her forehead, grateful for the band of shade it provided.
At Mrs. Rawson’s suggestion, Emmy had changed into riding britches and a light yellow top. Still, sweat pooled and rolled down her back, tickling her between the shoulder blades. She was relieved to reach the cover of the oaks.
They dismounted and Cuddy tied off the reins. He pulled a carefully wrapped bundle from his saddlebag and handed it to Emmy. “Give this to Greta. Tell her to pick a good spot and spread the blanket.”
“I can spread a blanket, Cuddy. I’m capable.”
He caught her wrist. “Let Greta, please. And don’t wander off by yourself. It could be dangerous.”
A chill touched her spine. “Dangerous?”
“Rattlers. They don’t play nice around these parts. And the scorpions ... they’ll invite themselves to lunch. You won’t know they’re there until they sting you.”
Her eyes must have conveyed her fear, because he laughed and patted her s
houlder. “Stay close to Greta. For all her prissy ways, she’s well adjusted to her environment.” He took the bundle from Emmy and handed it off to Greta, who had joined them. “Eyes like a hawk. Right, sis?”
She took the pack from him none too gently and stalked toward the bank. “I’m not speaking to my brother, in case he hasn’t noticed.”
Cuddy widened his eyes at Emmy. “This outing holds promise.”
Emmy stifled a laugh.
Though the river hardly lived up to the term cesspool, Greta was right in saying there was nothing spectacular about the Nueces. It offered low, murky water and muddy banks, exposed roots along the opposite wall, and stagnant pockets topped by green scum. Still, it was the wettest place Emmy had seen since she’d arrived in South Texas. When she threw in the grass tickling her legs beneath the cover, abundant restful shade, and the wind whistling through the overhead treetops, their little picnic became a refreshing retreat from the heat—and a respite from Papa’s broad thumb. She untied the ribbon of her hat and took it off. Shaking her hair out behind her, she turned her face to catch the breeze.
Greta tossed her half-eaten sandwich aside and pushed to her knees. Staring toward the water, she stretched and yawned, then rose without a word and walked away. Spreading her shawl in a grassy spot near the bank, she pulled out a small green book and pen and sat down to write.
Cuddy chuckled. “She’s writing scathing insults about me in her diary.”
Emmy glanced at Greta hunched over the book balanced on her knees, biting the end of her pencil. “How do you know?”
He winked. “My ears are itching.”
Emmy passed him a napkin. “Your ears deceive you. If she’s writing scathing insults, they’re directed at me.” She wiped her mouth. “She doesn’t care much for me, does she?”
Cuddy lay back on his folded arms, staring at the brilliant blue sky. “You may not believe it, but Greta couldn’t wait for you to arrive.”
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