Emmy's Equal

by Marcia Gruver

  “Blast it!” Bored silly with obedience to unreasonable requests, she flounced to the bed and fell backward, reaching her hands to her sides to gather the quilt about her. “After all,” she demanded of the empty room, “what else are bedcovers for?” Wrapped in its comforting folds, she felt like a disgruntled enchilada, the savory dish Rosita had served the night before.

  Rolling onto her side, she allowed anger like she’d not felt in months to churn inside. Who did Diego Marcelo imagine himself to be? How dare he announce his intention to keep his distance! He said it would make things easier. Easier for whom?

  She tossed to the other side. “We’ll just see about that, you arrogant, confusing man. I’ll decide how much distance to put between us, thank you. When I’m done with you, you’ll not want much, I assure you.”

  Emmy had tried to be good and found it a loathsome bother. Look where it had gotten her—one man who assumed her meekness made her easy, another who thought he could set her aside. Well, no more! Changing a man’s mind came second nature to Emmy, and that was exactly what she intended to do.

  Throwing the cover aside, she bolted upright on the side of the bed. Her image in the oval mirror across the room grinned at her like a long-lost friend. Her smile widened. One thing was certain, Katherine Rawson had best sharpen her chaperoning skills. If the twinkle in the eyes of the girl staring out from the mirror could be trusted, the old Emily Dane had returned.

  CHAPTER 18

  Melatha rolled off her cot onto her knees to thank God for another day. She praised Him for the cross of Christ. She blessed Him for blessing her with plenty, including the generous bounty of her garden, watered by the abundance of artesian wells that gave Carrizo the richest farmland in the South. She reminded Him to bless the Rawsons for providing her with a comfortable place to lay her head at night and a well-stocked kitchen to cook for her son. She’d hardly begun laying her petitions about Isi before the throne, requests concerning White Hair in particular, when the door creaked open behind her.

  Melatha instinctively jerked her gaze to the crack at the side of the shade. Still pitch dark. Spinning to her feet, nearly tripping on her cotton nightdress, she crossed the room and hoisted the frying pan over her head before the intruder stepped over the threshold.

  “You move with less stealth these days, Mother. I easily tracked you from the bed to the stove.”

  Weak in the knees, she lowered the heavy cast iron to the floor. “Isi! I nearly opened your skull with the skillet.”

  The scratch of a match preceded the glow of her lantern, lighting the room and chasing her fear to the shadows. Isi’s familiar grin wavered above the flame, warped by the flickering light. “The skillet? Now that part I didn’t track.”

  She lifted the pan to the stove and dusted her hands. “A mistake for which you almost paid dearly.”

  He laughed. “Do you always greet visitors with a crack on the head?”

  Her brows crowded together. “No one enters my jacal so long before the sun does. Even you wait until the smell of bacon lures you. Why is this morning different?”

  Head low, he shuffled to her and pulled her close. “I’m sorry I frightened you. Mr. Rawson and his guests are leaving soon for Catarina. He asked me to help see them off. I had hoped for an early breakfast this morning, that’s all.”

  Pushing against him, Melatha gazed up. She’d already seen through his flimsy, bungled speech. “Breakfast? That’s all?”

  He nodded, but his eyes faltered.

  She decided not to press. As sure as the sunrise, he’d open up before he left her table. She had only to wait for the chance to pull it out of him with the nimble, practiced fingers of a mother. Hopefully his present distress had nothing to do with the scheming Emily Dane.

  “They’re leaving Emmy behind. Did you know that?”

  Her hope waned. She shrugged past him and bent to gather wood for the stove. “Do you mean Emily?”

  He lifted her bag of coffee and spooned two large scoops into the pot. “Yes, Emily. She asked me to call her Emmy. It’s the name her friends use.”

  I’m sure they do. “I would think she has many friends.”

  Isi paused. He stared at the side of her head while she mixed her corn cakes. Whatever words swirled in his mind, he bit them back and thankfully chose to tread the road to peace. She’d have to be more careful.

  “As I was saying, they plan to leave her on the ranch until they return. Why do you suppose they’d do such a thing?”

  It made little sense to Melatha. She’d never trust a daughter like Emily. “How do you know this?”

  He twisted his mouth as if he tasted sour milk. “Cuddy boasted of it to Little Pete. I suppose he’s led the men to believe he’ll benefit from it somehow. Those animals jested and leered”—his lips tightened against his teeth—“until I shut them up.”

  Melatha pushed a dollop of churned butter off the edge of a spoon with her finger. It landed in the warming pan with a sizzle, so she gave the batter a final stir and ladled a generous spoonful on top of the foaming butter. Knowing she would cross a line with him, she spoke her heart. “At times fetid winds stir up truth.”

  He calmly finished filling the coffeepot with water, but his unruffled manner was deceptive. When he faced her, his eyes were flashing. “Why don’t you like her?”

  She tried to look innocent. “I never said I didn’t. I only—”

  He held up his hand. “Don’t. You’ve made your feelings clear since the day she arrived. It’s not like you, Mother. You taught me that it’s God’s business to judge. Yet, you’ve judged Emmy. What is it about this one girl that makes you lay aside your beliefs?”

  Melatha wanted to shake him, to rail in his face until he opened his eyes. She bit her tongue instead. “I don’t mean to judge, but I’ve already told you what I see in her.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “You said she has a restless spirit. For that you despise her? How many times have you said the same about me?”

  Tendrils of desperation wound about her like the smoke rising off the corn cakes. Her temper as hot as the skillet, she shoved the pan to the back of the stove. The stench of burnt corn assailed her nostrils and stung her eyes, providing an excuse for her tears. “I’m trying to protect you, Isi.”

  He strode to the door and jerked it open.

  She wondered if he believed it was to rid the room from smoke when she knew he intended to leave.

  “Save your worries for something else. I don’t need your protection from Emmy. I intend to stay far away from her.”

  The tears in his eyes wrenched her mother’s heart because she couldn’t tell if the smoke or something else had caused them. “What do you mean, son?”

  “I mean I’d prance bare-bottomed through a field of cactus to steer clear of Emily Dane. The girl’s eyes burn my flesh, Mother. I’m careful to avoid her touch for fear it will set me ablaze.”

  Melatha’s heart dove. Things were worse than she imagined.

  She started toward Isi, but he spun on his heel and bolted out the door.

  ***

  Diego bounded off his mother’s porch and trotted in the opposite direction he needed to go. Not ready to wrestle with what might be waiting for him up at the main house, he rounded the weathered bunkhouse instead.

  Hidden from the prying eyes of the casa mayor and his mother’s jacal, he sagged against the rough boards of the narrow wall that faced the river and slid to the ground with a ragged sigh. Massaging his throbbing temples with his fingertips, Diego tried to sort out his confusing thoughts.

  He had wasted the last eight years of his life running from himself, and he was exhausted. Denying his Choctaw blood, he had traveled the country, seeking a different link to his past. He’d hoped to locate someone who knew his father and gain information that would connect him to his Spanish relations.

  If he’d found them during those early troubled years, he’d be basking by the sea on the southern coast of Spain instead o
f toiling on the bank of the Nueces. He’d be cavorting among almond trees instead of dust and cactus, dancing the flamenco and eating the paella on which his father had cut his teeth.

  Diego’s desire to find his paternal roots had all but consumed him. He’d tried to follow God’s will when he reunited with his mother and brought her south. Though his love for her had never waned, the fire within him to be someone besides Little Deer still blazed, despite how hard he prayed.

  The last few days with Emmy had stoked a new flame within. She made him whole again, more complete than he’d felt since his father died. Yet his mother, whose instincts he’d always trusted, considered Emmy too spirited. Cuddy saw her as a prize to conquer, perhaps a way to gain revenge.

  Whatever his reasons, Cuddy wanted her, and she preferred him. The finality and hopelessness of these undeniable facts weighed down Diego’s shoulders.

  “I thought I saw you duck back here.”

  Suppressing a moan at the latest evidence of the recent turn of his luck, Diego’s head jerked up. “Greta.”

  Her expression bounced from confusion to pleasure then made the rounds again. “What are you doing sitting here all alone?” She tilted her head to the side. “Are you all right?”

  He pushed to his feet, digging deep for a smile. “Of course.” He waved his hand distractedly. “I come here sometimes to—” He suddenly felt ridiculous.

  She pressed her hand to her forehead. “Say no more. I’ve intruded on your privacy and interrupted your thoughts. Forgive me.” She turned to go.

  He should’ve let her. Instead, he put out his hand. “Greta, wait.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Stay a minute, please.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Her hopeful smile shamed him. He hadn’t treated her well lately. “I’m certain. Come here.”

  She cast a guilty look toward the house. “I suppose it’ll be all right. For a minute or two.” She surprised him by lowering herself to the dewy grass and spreading her skirt beneath her.

  To keep from embarrassing her, he sat, too, as if he intended all along for her to sit on the damp ground.

  Letting her gaze wander the expanse of the yard, Greta toyed with the cotton sash at her waist. He’d never seen her so ill at ease, so unsure of herself, and hoped he wasn’t the cause. Her delicate white throat bobbed above her lace collar. He couldn’t tell if she was about to speak or swallow.

  She did both. Gulping hard, she smiled at him. “It’s a nice spot. Do you come here often?”

  Diego bit back a grin. The underside of the bunkhouse smelled of musty dirt; the sparse island of grass they’d settled on was the only solid groundcover in a sea of sand, pebbles, and stubble; and the wind lifted the sharp stench of manure from the southeast pasture, blowing it under their noses. Nice was hardly the word he’d use. “I slip back here occasionally. It’s quiet at least. No one bothers me.”

  She ducked her head. “Most of the time, anyway?”

  He gave a throaty laugh and nodded. “Yes, most of the time.” He felt her watching him so he quirked one brow in her direction.

  Her cheeks reddened and she covered her face, but her laughter pealed, sounding relaxed and unforced again. “I’ve missed spending time with you, Diego. You make me feel good inside.”

  A playful smirk on his face, he leaned closer. “I do?”

  She tittered and shifted her body, not away from him as she’d always done before but so near he smelled rosewater in her hair.

  He touched the tip of her nose. “Suppose I say you make me feel good inside, too?”

  It was true. He felt alive, every cell of his body glowing. He didn’t want to be alone today. If he wanted to be with Greta, who would it hurt? Cuddy obviously didn’t mind. Mr. Rawson would be overjoyed. His mother had hinted her approval. And Emmy? He doubted she would notice.

  Greta gazed at him with hazy eyes that went to slits, and then she let her head fall back, an open invitation to kiss her.

  He pressed the side of his mouth against her face. “You’re so lovely.”

  She turned and he felt the softness of her lips against his cheek. “Oh, Diego.”

  He moved his head in small deliberate circles, nuzzling to find her mouth. “And so sweet.”

  She drew in sharply when he kissed her.

  “Lovely, sweet Emmy,” he whispered.

  He thought the strangled gasp came from Greta until Cuddy spoke. “I see you found him, little sister.”

  Emmy stood beside him, staring at Diego with wounded eyes. Whirling, she pushed past Cuddy and disappeared.

  Greta buried her clenched fists in Diego’s chest and shoved him away then stood to her feet. Tears flowing, she gathered her skirts and dashed around the opposite side of the bunkhouse.

  Leering, Cuddy leaned against the corner and crossed his arms. “I believe I may have misjudged you, Diego. I see you’ve been sweet on Greta all along.”

  Understanding slowly settled. Cuddy hadn’t heard him call his sister the wrong name, so maybe Emmy hadn’t either.

  Cuddy squatted to eye level, squinting at Diego. “Unless you’re trying to string them both along at the same time?”

  “No! I—”

  Cuddy laughed and swatted the air. “Just joking, friend,” he boomed, grinning wider. “I know Saint Diego could never do such a thing. That’s more my style.”

  Awash with guilt, Diego lowered his head.

  “Hey, it’s all right, amigo. I don’t mind you courting my sister. I always figured you might.” Brandishing one finger, he scowled. “Not that I approve of any more slip-ups like what I just witnessed. If you want to kiss Greta like that, you need to put a ring on her finger first.”

  He stood and sauntered over to take his sister’s place on the ground. “So all that nonsense with Emmy ... the stuff you told the old man ... you were just confused?”

  Diego opened his mouth to deny it, but Cuddy’s upraised hand didn’t give him the chance. “I understand completely. Emily Dane would confuse a celibate monk.” He grinned then sobered. “I wish you’d come and set me straight, that’s all. I haven’t liked being on the outs with you. It feels unnatural.”

  “Cuddy, listen—”

  “I hate that we stumbled onto you and embarrassed the women. Emmy’s face was brick red when she spun out of here.” He sobered. “And poor Greta was in tears.”

  Curious, Diego frowned. “Why did you two come back here?”

  “Looking for you. Melatha said you came this way.”

  “Why were you looking for me?”

  Cuddy cursed and struggled to his feet. “For the old man! He’s blasting smoke from his ears by now. He sent us to find Greta, who he sent to find you a half hour ago.”

  Bouncing his palm off his forehead, Diego leaped up, too. “I forgot. He asked me to be present to make sure their departure went smoothly.”

  Cuddy nodded. “Yep, he figured you forgot. He wasn’t in the best of moods about it either. If he saw Greta come back crying...”

  They shared a look.

  Cuddy grimaced. “He’ll be looking for someone to blame it on. We’d best hightail it to the house.”

  Heart pounding, Diego wheeled around the front of the bunkhouse on Cuddy’s heels, running to face the latest mess he’d made.

  Thankfully, the wagon still sat in front of the house, fully loaded and tied down. Willem Dane sat stiffly in the driver’s seat with his wife perched beside a fidgety Mrs. Bloom in back. Staring toward the house, he shook his head. “Magda, where’s Emily? You’d think she’d want to see us off.”

  “I told you she’s not feeling well. A headache, I think. She’s resting upstairs.”

  Diego winced.

  “Besides,” Mrs. Dane continued, “she bid her farewells this morning. I do believe she can’t stand to watch us go.”

  He snorted and Mrs. Dane leaned to squeeze his shoulder. “Try to be more understanding, Willem. Your daughter’s upset.”

>   Mr. Rawson stood on the front porch talking to his wife, one hand patting the side of her face. He tenderly kissed her then strode down the steps to the rig. Spotting Cuddy and Diego, his face blanched. By the time they reached him, his cheeks had mottled to various shades of red.

  “Where the devil have you been?” He directed the question at Diego.

  “I’m sorry, sir. There’s no excuse. I should’ve been here like you asked.”

  His boss glowered. “You got that right. I needed you.”

  Diego cringed. This was more than bad luck. His life was falling apart. “If it’s not too late, sir, I’m at your disposal. What can I do to help?”

  Something over Diego’s shoulder caught Mr. Rawson’s eye. “It was too late an hour ago. Little Pete tended your business for you.” He tilted his chin. “And here they come now.”

  Unprepared for what he would see, Diego looked behind him. His heart surged and he spun around. “Faron, sir?”

  Mr. Rawson pushed past him. “Yes, Faron.”

  His heartbeat racing now, Diego ran after him. “Why is he saddled?” He knew his tone was harsh, demanding, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “I’m going to ride him, that’s why.”

  Faron stood proudly pawing the ground and snorting his displeasure with the delay. Ready to run, he strained at the reins.

  Muscles rippled in Little Pete’s arms and back as he tried to hold him, and relief flooded his face when Mr. Rawson took over. “He is one spirited animal, this horse,” Pete said, laughing and shaking his head.

  “That’s how I like them, Pete,” Mr. Rawson boomed.

  Pete grinned. “Sí, señor.” Looking guilty, he stepped aside when Diego approached. Aside from feeding and brushing, Diego had instructed the men never to handle Faron.

  “Mr. Rawson, wait. I don’t understand. You’re not taking him to Catarina?”

  “No, son.” He swung into the saddle and tapped the horse with his heels. “Weren’t you listening? I’m riding him to Catarina.”