Downstairs, she went in search of Vashti to see if there were horses handy or if she should drive to the old ranchhouse. Vashti was sunning by the pool, an almost empty glass beside her. An emerald string bikini bared her seductively curved body and she glistened with tanning cream.
That magnificent body needed what the crippled man upstairs could no longer provide. Tracy felt grudging sympathy for the woman. Even surrounded by luxury, she was in a cruel position.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said to Tracy’s question. “I don’t ride and when Judd does, he has a vaquero bring a horse. You can do that. Call Chuey, or take anything in the garage. The keys are labeled and hanging just inside the entry.”
Tracy thanked her and was turning away when Vashti swung long legs off the lounge and looked up at her through sunglasses. “Thanks for playing valet to Patrick. He just has no consideration for the trouble it puts me to when he provokes a nurse into quitting!”
“Maybe the new one will work out.”
“My God, I hope so!” Vashti drained her glass and sounded a bell that brought the young man who’d served them at table yesterday. Bowing to Tracy, he took the glass and went off without a question. Clasping her arms tightly about herself, Vashti said with drunken plaintiveness, “You know what’s terrible?”
“What?”
“He—he wants me to lie down by him.” Vashti shuddered. “Without my clothes!”
“You are his wife.” Taken aback, sorry for them both, it was all Tracy could think of to say.
Vashti yanked off the sunglasses. Dark green eyes blazed and her soft mouth twisted. “That’s the awful part! He’s always been such a marvelous lover, even after he went blind. Now—now he’s the way he is—oh, God! It’s like lying down with death!”
“You must be life to him, and warmth,” Tracy pointed out. “Can’t you, Vashti, knowing how it is for him?”
“I—I’ve tried! I just can’t bear it.”
Grief for Patrick swept aside Tracy’s pity for the woman. She said in a grim voice, “If that’s how it is, then I think you should get a nurse who won’t feel that way.”
Vashti took a long swallow from the glass the young man had quietly placed on the table. “It’s all so silly! Apart from touching, he can’t do anything.”
“Touching’s mightily important.” Tracy knew. She often hungered for simple physical closeness, just holding and being held.
Vashti thrust on her sunglasses and lay back, the belly beneath her rib cage taut and flat as a girl’s. Her fingers brushed nipples that pressed visibly against the bikini top. “You don’t understand,” she muttered.
Tracy did, too well. Patrick’s wife felt only revulsion for his helplessness, his longing to be warmed by a woman’s body. At the same time, Vashti missed their former sexual passion. Maybe, tormented by that, she was as incapable of the nurturing Patrick craved as he was of the prowess of which she felt cheated.
In such a miserable deadlock, reproaching Vashti would be useless. Feeling at a loss, Tracy said not to wait lunch for her and walked around the house to the long garage.
The doors were closed behind a wine-red truck fitted with rifle racks and super-wide heavy tires, a powerful camouflage-painted RV and a dark-blue Mercedes, the last probably Judd’s. Tracy also dismissed a silver Cadillac, which had to be Vashti’s. That left a Ford pickup, a shiny yellow Toyota truck and a sage-green Plymouth Horizon.
Stepping into the entry to the main house, she found the keys and was quickly on her way.
It was calving season. Chuey and the two married sons who lived with him had been up all night midwifing and had to get back to their work after a cup of steaming coffee and expressions of delight that the doncellita was back. “You will be riding,” Chuey said. “Your old mare died last winter, but I’ve been gentling a fine young gelding for you.” In spite of his weariness, his seamed face spread in a broken-toothed smile. “His mane is just the color of yours, Teresita.” Puzzled by her masculine name, the vaqueros had given her one they liked.
“It was good of you to think of me, Chuey. When you’re through with calving, I’d love to see the horse, but don’t trouble about it now.”
She’d attended school with Tivi and Roque, the sons, who introduced their pretty wives. Carla was from Tucson, happily large with her second child by stocky, soft-spoken Tivi. Roque, wiry and tall, had married a ranch girl, Lupe, thin and quick-moving, who’d been helping with the calves. Both girls showed the utmost respect to plump, motherly Inez, who ran the establishment, in which several orphaned nieces and nephews mingled indistinguishably with grandchildren.
The family had gathered in the sala to welcome Tracy. Glancing from the work-stained vaqueros and the busy, happy women to the carved dark madonna that had presided over this house from its founding, Tracy relaxed. Peace flowed into her. Gazing at the blue-robed Guadalupana that had become, in ranch legend, identified inextricably with Socorro, Tracy then smiled at the dark-eyed little girl at her knee and lifted her onto her lap.
“I’m home,” she told the Sanchezes.
After the men went back to work, Tracy stayed to chat awhile with Inez and Carla. “Don Patrick, how is he?” Inez asked.
Tracy gave them her impressions and added that she hoped the new nurse would suit her great-uncle. Inez sniffed. “He’s fond of Lupe, who is his godchild. She and Roque would stay at the big new house and look after Don Patrick, but when Roque spoke of this to the madama, she was very rude.”
For the sake of the Sanchez family’s fierce pride, Tracy made an excuse. “I’m sure my uncle’s wife thinks he needs a trained nurse.”
“He needs—” began Inez strongly, and then shook her head in self-rebuke. “May our Lady bless him,” she finished and inclined her head to the figure of the small madonna. “I have tamales, the way he likes them. Will you take him some?”
“Being remembered will please him as much as the tamales,” Tracy said and laughed.
Within minutes she was on her way, a dozen tamales wrapped in foil nestling on the seat beside her. Taking the road to the new house, she drove absently, worrying over Patrick’s unhappy and isolated situation.
Up ahead, a pickup was parked off the road down a wash, probably by a vaquero attending to his work, Tracy thought, paying little attention. Suddenly, one of the doors swung open, and a slim, black-haired girl tumbled out, but before she could run a man threw himself on her, knocking her to the ground.
Tracy slammed on her brakes. The sound reached the struggling pair. Releasing the girl, a burly blond man jumped into the pickup, spun it around. As his victim ducked behind a mesquite, he gunned for the road, starting to swerve around Tracy.
After what had happened to her in Houston, damned if she’d let him go! She drove the car forward till it blocked his way. He honked furiously. Tracy stayed put although she was scared. He backed up, evidently meaning to cut over the bank, but as he churned up the slope, Shea’s raunchy old pickup hove in sight.
Nothing had ever looked sweeter. Leaning over, Tracy opened her car door for the jeans-clad, coppery-skinned girl whose lip was bleeding from a blow that had also splotched the side of her thin, oval face.
“That son of a bitch!” she panted. “At least I broke his goddamn finger for him! Oh, hell! My duffel’s in his truck!”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Tracy said, then gasped as the blond thug leaned out of his rolled-down window and fired a revolver at Shea.
He missed, got off a second useless shot as Shea sent the pickup crashing sideways into the other vehicle, knocking it down the bank. By the time it crunched with finality into a dead cottonwood, Shea and Geronimo were beside it, hauling the driver out, knocking the gun from his hand.
His recent passenger hurried to the wreck. Disregarding the blond punk, she swung a battered duffel out of the pickup, tossed it down and nodded approvingly at Geronimo and Shea as her direct dark eyes moved from one to the other.
“Thank you, fellas. I hope you didn
’t hurt your truck.”
“Not like we did his,” grinned Geronimo, then scowled at her cut lip and jerked his head at the glowering blond. “He do that?”
The slim girl shrugged. “Call it even.” She nodded at a left forefinger that was evidently causing its owner pain.
“You guys have it all wrong,” he growled sullenly. “Little bitch promised to put out if I’d give her a lift, but then she wanted money, too.”
“You friggin’ liar! I gave you money for gas!”
The big man whose bare chest showed beneath a denim vest glanced appealingly at Shea. “You wouldn’t take a Mex whore’s word over a white man’s?”
A noise came from Geronimo’s throat. The girl made a hissing sound. She took an Army knife out of her pocket. “I’m Apache, buster!” she said, opening the blade. “If you men’ll hold the bastard, I’ll make sure he doesn’t try to rape anyone again!”
Shea caught his prisoner’s arm. “He’s got it coming, miss, but we’d better just hand him over to the sheriff. Want to come along and prefer charges on top of those we’ll make?”
She sighed and knocked dust off her lean but shapely bottom. “I want Blondie to get all that’s coming to him,” she said with a vengeful glare. “But I’m already late for work. New job, too. What they’ll think when I turn up looking like this—”
Tracy blinked. “Are you the new nurse? For Patrick Scott?”
The girl, who, close up, looked older, perhaps Tracy’s age, stared, gulped and nodded. “You know him?”
“He’s my great-uncle.” Tracy flicked her thumb toward Shea. “Shea’s his son.” She frowned slightly at Geronimo. “And you’re his godson, right?”
“You bet!” He beamed at the young woman as she reluctantly thrust her knife into her pocket. “Hey, are you really Apache?”
“Coyotero.” She added a bit shamefacedly, “Grandpa was white.”
“That’s okay,” said Geronimo magnanimously. “I’m Chiricahua, but quite a lot of Mexican slipped in.”
“Quite a few Mexicans,” Shea remarked drily. “Well, miss, if you’re going to the house anyway, let’s take this one along and call the sheriff from there.” He kicked the crushed side of the pickup. “Exhibit A won’t be going anywhere. Let’s leave the gun for the sheriff.”
“Hey, man,” began the captive, starting to look scared. “I got some real good stuff under the seat. You can have it if you’ll just forget about this!”
“We’ll leave that for the sheriff, too.” Clamping the blond’s arm behind him, Shea marched him to the pickup, where Geronimo shoved him inside.
“See you ladies at the house!” he called, and waved as Shea backed off to follow them.
V
The new nurse hopped in beside Tracy and stuck out a slender brown hand with clean close-trimmed nails. “I’m Mary O’Rourke. Thanks for the rescue.”
“I didn’t do much.”
Mary shook her head, bouncing the thick single plait of black hair that hung down her back. “If you hadn’t stopped, I’d probably be dead by now. There was no way I was going to let the bastard get what he wanted while I could wiggle a toe. What’s your name?”
Tracy told her, added that she was no heroine, but had once been assaulted herself. “So I couldn’t just drive on when you were trying to get away.”
Mary rummaged in her bag and came out with a bandana, which she used to clean the dried blood off her mouth and chin. “Well, Tracy, I hope you never need help again, but if you do, I want to be there.” She glanced over her shoulder at the pickup behind them. “Lucky for both of us those guys came along. Guess you know them pretty well.”
By the time Tracy had explained who they were and answered a few questions about Patrick, they were pulling into the garage. Shea parked in front of the house and called out to Tracy to phone the sheriff while he and Geronimo kept their prisoner outside.
As Tracy waved Mary into the entry, the newcomer hung back. “Is there a bathroom? I sure need to go before I meet anyone.”
There was one just off the kitchen, but before Tracy could escort Mary there, Vashti appeared at the other end of the hall, peered at them in surprise and came toward them. “You didn’t tell me you were expecting a friend, Tracy dear.”
Mary stepped forward. “I’m the nurse, ma’am. You know, Mary O’Rourke.”
Vashti’s polite smile fluttered as if loosely pinned at the corners. “The nurse?” she echoed. “You’re Miss O’Rourke?”
She gave a faint laugh. “Really, you’re so young! And slender. I don’t see how you can take care of my husband. He’s a very big man, and paralyzed.”
“I’m skinny, ma’am, but real tough,” Mary said with cheery dauntlessness. “We can talk all you want in a minute but I’m going to bust if I don’t get to a bathroom!”
Tracy caught her arm and whisked her down the hall, gasping with laughter. “Oh, Mary! You’re just what Patrick needs!”
“She doesn’t think so!” Mary jerked her head in Vashti’s direction.
“Don’t worry about that,” Tracy assured her as Mary dashed through the open door of the bath.
Suppressing her amusement, Tracy picked up the nearest phone and dialed the sheriff, to be advised that a deputy then patrolling the highway near the ranch cutoff would be sent to them immediately.
“What is all this?” demanded Vashti at her elbow as she hung up.
“Tell you in a minute.” Hurrying to the front door, Tracy reported to Shea. “It’ll be at least a half-hour. Why don’t you tie your buddy up and come have some coffee?”
“Yeah, why don’t we?” urged Geronimo.
“Oh, go on and get acquainted with the new nurse!” Shea growled. “I can watch this guy.”
“I’ll tie his hands and feet just to make sure,” said Geronimo.
Tracy turned back to Vashti and briefly explained. “From what I’ve seen of Mary,” she concluded, “it’ll give Patrick a new lease on life just to have her around.”
“But she—she’s so coarse!”
You ain’t heard nothin’ yet, Tracy thought, and grinned. “She’s certainly forthright. But she’s clean, she’s gutsy, and I figure she’s competent. If she hitchhiked from Tucson, I’ll bet she’s also hungry.”
Vashti’s lips slipped together. “Henri can’t be expected—”
“Oh, the devil with Henry! I’ll get something myself.” Tracy called to Mary, who was emerging from the bathroom with a look of ineffable content. “How about a snack while you’re being interviewed?”
Mary’s smooth brow furrowed. “Interviewed? I thought I was already hired.”
“Still, Miss O’Rourke, there are things we need to know about each other.” Vashti’s superior smile dripped sweet reason. Tracy longed to pinch her. “Surely, if we find areas of serious disagreement, it would be better for all concerned for you to accept a generous payment for your trouble and return to town.”
Mary’s puzzled gaze flicked to Tracy, who made an okay sign behind Vashti’s back. This girl was just what Patrick needed; he was going to have her.
“Let’s sit down in the kitchen and have some coffee,” Tracy said, beckoning to Geronimo, who had just come in.
Vashti, stiff-backed, plied Mary with questions while Tracy brought coffee, crispy almond rolls and a bowl of fruit. It was fun to see Geronimo peel an orange, divide it carefully and put it on Mary’s plate.
“You’re a licensed practical nurse, but you’re saving up to study auto mechanics?” Vashti’s tone was incredulous. “Forgive me, Miss O’Rourke, but I find that astonishing.”
Mary shrugged thin shoulders, licking the last trace of caramelly syrup from her fingers. “I like taking care of people. But I just love to tinker around with cars and trucks.” She laughed, revealing white teeth set somewhat far apart. “Never hurts to have more than one way to make a living.”
“That’s another thing,” said Vashti. “You must intend to get married someday. Since my husband will probably be a
n invalid the rest of his life, I do want someone I can rely on.”
“The agreement’s for a year,” said Mary. “I can promise you that. From what the employment agency said, ma’am, you’ve had five women out here in less than three months.”
“If you could call ’em women,” Geronimo grimaced.
Vashti scowled murderously at him, said grudgingly to Mary, “All right, Miss O’Rourke. As soon as the deputy’s taken your evidence or oath or whatever’s necessary, perhaps Tracy will take you up to meet my husband, and show you your room, which is next to his.” She paused, obviously displeased and baffled. “If you still think you can handle the position, you can start tomorrow.”
“I’ll start today,” Mary said. “Just let me help get that friggin’ bastard put away and—”
Vashti rose. “Miss O’Rourke! I find such language exceedingly offensive!”
“What language?” Mary asked, eyes rounding. “I only said—”
Vashti stalked out, shoes clicking, her head so high that not a hint of double chin showed. Tracy looked suspiciously at Mary, saw she was honestly puzzled and burst out laughing.
Geronimo slapped his thigh and handed Mary a slice of luscious mango. “Mary O’Rourke, you’re one dynamite Apache! You’ll do more for Don Patrick than all of my tequila!” Grinning at Tracy, he added, “That took nerve, chica, cutting Blondie off at the pass. Shea still can’t believe it.”
Tracy’s exultation began to ebb. Shea had come forcefully to the rescue, she couldn’t fault him for that, but he hadn’t said one approving word to her—not that she expected praise, but it wouldn’t have hurt him to acknowledge that she’d helped Mary at some risk to herself.
Damn him anyway! If he wanted to think all women were awful because he’d married a faithless one, that was his problem. But his cold behavior rankled later, during the deputy’s interrogation.
As Tracy explained why she had stopped, Shea listened with a remote smile, and as soon as the deputy had his information and prisoner, Shea reminded Geronimo that they had been on their way to pick up some fence posts that were still waiting for them.
A Mating of Hawks Page 6
