He smiled sheepishly at her now. “Don Francisco and I can’t seem to agree just exactly what I should do with my life.”
She smiled sweetly. “Why, I'd send the boy back to school, Don Francisco.” Before her statement could be challenged, she quickly borrowed the dictionary and retreated from the room’s verbal battleground.
When she returned to the courtyard, another battle was in progress between Abigail and Brigham. “He does not!” Brigham shrieked. Catherine caught him just as he picked up a chinaberry to hurl at his sister.
“What’s this all about?" Catherine demanded.
Tears spiked Brigham's long lashes. “Abigail,” he said tremulously, pointing to his sister, who stood at the wrought-iron gate leading out into the compound, “Abigail says cowpunchers are sissies . . . that they like girls!”
Abigail turned from the gate back to Catherine. “I did not,” she said in an adult voice. “I merely told Brig that one of the cowpunchers has been making calf eyes at you. There—see, he’s coming back to the stables again—and it’s just to get a glimpse of you, Miss Howard.”
Catherine wanted to laugh, but she smoothed the dark-brown hair back from Brigham’s small, serious face. “You know, Brigham,” she said in a solemn tone, “just because a cowboy—”
“Cowpuncher,” he corrected.
“—cowpuncher likes to look at something nice doesn’t mean he’s a sissy. Don’t you like to look at tintypes of the pretty steamboats I showed you? But that doesn’t make you a sissy, does it?”
Mollified, Brigham at last returned to the letters he had been copying on his slate, and Abigail settled down to her geography.
Catherine knew that the perceptive Abigail was no doubt correct. With the stables sharing the far courtyard wall, there was ample opportunity for the Cristo Rey hands to glance through the gate. Several times she had looked up to find one of the hands standing near the gate—but always studiously engaged with tightening a saddle’s cinch or checking a horse’s shoe. If she happened to catch him spying, the hand would usually tip his hat and saunter off.
Admittedly she wanted a husband. Too quickly she would be thirty! But the hands were either all stringy, work-hardened old men or youths with peach fuzz still on their faces. An inexperienced youth was not what she wanted. And she certainly did not want someone like Law, an aimless, willy-nilly sort of a man, with none of Sherrod’s strong-willed nature.
Sherrod was absent from the Stronghold almost as often as Law. She knew he quite often rode the herds with his vaqueros, and when he was home he would more than likely be found drilling his guards or closeted in Don Francisco’s office.
In the evenings the entire family came together for dinner, presided over by Don Francisco, who always asked the Lord’s blessing. But afterward, when the family adjourned to the parlor, it would be Sherrod’s animated personality that dominated the conversation. Catherine would sit in the chair nearest the fireplace and listen to the affectionate banter between Don Francisco and his son while she sipped at the Mexican chocolate Loco served, for Don Francisco allowed neither coffee nor tea in that Mormon household.
She delighted in these after-dinner family get-togethers, because often guests came, as there was no place in the area to stay except at the Stronghold. The first week in April Don Francisco hosted a Jonathan Stridehope. A balding but nice-looking man of perhaps forty, he was an archaeologist who was working on a dig in the nearby Canyon de Canelo.
The articulate Stridehope talked of artifacts he had discovered in the canyon’s cave. Brigham was entranced when he learned that among the artifacts were several mummies and followed up with numerous questions.
At one point Catherine asked, ‘‘These mummies, Professor Stridehope—were they found in the same layers as the handmade rope shoes and broken pottery?”
‘‘You’re familiar with the theory of stratigraphy?” he asked, surprise wrinkling his high brow.
‘‘Only slightly. I’ve read some of the work of the Danish archaeologist Thomsen.”
The man’s serious eyes came to life. He began to talk volubly with her before the two of them became embarrassingly aware they were monopolizing the conversation. She broke off to find the eyes of all the Godwins on her. Yet it was the warmth in Sherrod's that made her color. She glanced at Lucy, but the young woman seemed in a world of her own. Quickly Catherine excused herself and retired for the evening.
Sherrod was not to let her forget the incident so easily. He came to the courtyard the next day after school resumed at one. She was sitting on the bench next to Brigham, showing the boy how to write the cursive flourishes on the slate, when she heard Abigail call out, “Papa!”
Catherine looked up to find the handsome man, dressed in shirt sleeves, coming toward her. He bent to scoop up his daughter, who had flung herself against his waist. Brushing her long pigtails behind her shoulders, he kissed her lightly on the cheek before turning her loose. “Good afternoon. Miss Howard. I hope Abigail has been applying herself.”
“She’s doing very well with her geography. She seems to have a knack for the European countries. If only she did as well with her French and history, I'm quite certain you would have a world traveler on your hands.”
His mouth widened in a rueful smile. “I’m afraid she gets her love of Europe from her mother. Lucy has always wanted to visit all its capitals, and I’ve promised her as soon as the war is over and the Apache problem under control we’ll take off and tour the Continent.”
“Is there much danger of an attack on the Stronghold?”
“Not likely. My vaqueros ride guard constantly. Cochise seems to be concentrating more on the lone miners and defenseless settlers. We'd be more apt to be raided by a band of Mexican revolutionaries that plague some of our border ranches. ” With Catherine’s attention diverted, Abigail and Brigham escaped the routine of their studies and began to chase about the courtyard’s trees. Intending to call the children back to class, Catherine made to rise and found herself hampered by her gabardine skirts.
“Here, let me help you,” Sherrod said. His hand caught her elbow, propelling her upward, which was a mistake, because it put her within inches of his face, so close the scent of his men’s lilac cologne reached her. Her heart seemed to flutter, as if teetering precariously on a limb, then double-beat to catch balance.
She did not know what betraying emotion might have flickered across her face, but something in her expression caught his intent gaze. He blinked away a frown of puzzlement. “You know, you surprised me last night,” he began quietly, “when you and Professor Stridehope were talking. I had no idea—”
“So there you are,” Law said lightly.
Both Sherrod and she whirled. She could well imagine the guilty expression she wore. What could Law have thought, catching his stepbrother's hands at her waist—seeing the two of them standing so close to one another? She strove to compose herself as Law walked toward them in long, easy strides that had none of Sherrod’s quick, decisive movements. “The old man wants to talk with you.”
Sherrod dropped his hands with a sigh. “Well, I did want to let you know that I couldn’t be more pleased with the children’s progress. Miss Howard.”
She watched him walk away before she turned to face Law. If there was even a hint of smirk on the young man’s face, she would slap him. But Law’s countenance was expressionless.
"Good day. ma’am,” he drawled, tilting the brim of the sombrero and ambling away.
She told herself that it was her own guilty thoughts which had made her jump to the conclusion that Law would suspect Sherrod and herself of improper behavior. Law’s craggy face had evidenced no such suspicion. She really had nothing to worry about. Then what was it about those sand-brown eyes that nagged at her so?
CHAPTER 6
Catherine broke the thread with her teeth and let the hem of her riding skirt drop about her Wellington boots. The lead weights she had sewn in the hem halted the swirl of the skirt and, she hoped, wou
ld prevent any gust of wind from blowing it above her boots.
The skirt had become threadbare with use but was still serviceable, at least for the solitary riding she planned. It wasn’t as if she were riding in Hyde Park before the haut monde, although the way Margaret had acted the day Catherine packed, one would have thought so.
“Now you must let me lend you one of my hair switches,’’ she had said as Catherine folded the riding skirt. “It's the latest thing, and you’ll look so much better with a sausage curl peeking beneath your riding hat.”
With a smile Catherine held one of the switches about her face. Yes, her sister was right. It did soften the sharpness of her chin. With a sigh, she dropped the switch back in its box. Her hair was thick enough as it was, too thick and heavy to make those fashionable curls about the face. And besides, the switch really matched Margaret's deep-brown hair, which had a beautiful russet sheen. Catherine thought of her own hair as "just plain brown,” although she could remember her father teasing her that its shade was as rich as fudge.
She placed the beaver top hat on her head, giving it the forward tilt Margaret insisted was de rigueur, pulled the white swiss veil over her face, and took up her quirt. She was ready. Ready? She was excited! It would be the first time in—how long, two, three years?—that she had been horseback riding.
The Civil War had curtailed one of the few things in which she truly took pleasure. And it seemed the perfect opportunity for a ride, since it was Sunday and there would be no classes. And Lucy was taking a nap, as she did quite often—for her headaches, she said.
Catherine meant to take the shortcut through the courtyard to the stable, but at the gate Elizabeth’s voice halted her. “You aren’t going riding, are you?”
She turned to face Elizabeth, who stood in the doorway, a feather duster clutched in her hands. Catherine wondered if the woman ever relaxed—read or took a nap. Even with the wealth of servants, Elizabeth was forever cleaning the house, her hands running over the woodwork, the adobe stones, the metal fixtures as if the Stronghold were a lover. “Why, yes, I was planning to ride.”
“Not on Sunday, Miss Howard! It’s God’s day.”
Catherine smiled. “I thought every day was God’s day.”
Elizabeth’s mouth hardened, and the eyes narrowed. “Be careful, Miss Howard. You’re tempting the hand of the Lord.”
“I shall be very careful riding, thank you,” she said evenly, and, closing the gate on the stone-faced woman, she proceeded to the stables. But the confrontation with the woman had dampened her excitement, and she jerked with annoyance on the straps as she saddled one of the better mounts.
“I’ll be cursed if I’m going to let that old witch ruin my day,” she told the blaze-faced roan as she rode through the Stronghold’s wide, open gates, ignoring the astonished looks of the guards.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The lean, swarthy man slouched in the saddle. The fatigue of three days’ hard riding showed in the dust-caked grooves on either side of the mouth and the fine lines fanning out from heavy-lidded eyes. Yet the eyes did not miss anything . . . not the centipede that wriggled through the sand two yards away nor the indolent flight of the vulture in the blue-white sky overhead; and most of all the eyes did not miss the horse and rider whose course he had been following for the past quarter of an hour from his lookout on the hogback ridge.
His breath whistled between his teeth. Damn the foolish female! But she was no more the fool than he was to even entertain ideas about such a woman. She knew nothing of life; instead of drinking lightly from the well, she would be like a thirsty man in the desert. It would destroy her . . . and the man foolish enough to drink with her.
He pulled the bandanna from his neck and wiped at the perspiration that slid from the drenched curls down the high bones of his chiseled face, all the while his gaze fastened on the woman, watching the way her firmly rounded buttocks hugged the sidesaddle. No, he didn’t have any good sense at all. Damn the woman and double-damn her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Catherine pulled up on the roan’s reins and turned in the direction of the eroded ridge from where the voice had come. Law sat on a horse that looked as though it had been ridden to South America and back. One of the young man’s long legs was crooked around the saddle horn as if he had been sitting there for quite some time. His sombrero sported more dust than his yellow duster.
“I asked you what you think you’re doing,” he repeated.
Another spoilsport! She sighed. It was obviously not going to be a good day for riding. “What does it look as if I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re getting yourself into a hell of a lot of trouble,” he said. He swung his leg back over the saddle and edged the pinto down the ridge toward her. “Cochise and his Chiricahuas are on the warpath not ten miles away and you decided to go for a jaunt?”
She shrugged. “If they don’t bother me, I won’t bother them.”
He reined in alongside of her, and she could see now the irritation in the grim set of the mouth and lowered line of the tawny brows. He rolled his eyes. “Miss Howard, there’s nothing better that I would like to do right now than throttle you. If there’s anything worse than a foolish woman, it’s a determined foolish woman.”
“Well, you had better think twice before you do, because it won’t be easy. And understand me, Law, I plan to continue riding as long as I am employed here.”
“Even if it means your death,” he taunted.
“We all have to die sometime.”
“But not a thousand times, Miss Howard; which is the way Cochise will have it if he gets hold of your pretty little body.”
She drew a deep breath, trying to contain her anger. "I’m not afraid of dying,” she said evenly. “But I am afraid of living an imprisoned life—which is just what the women at the Stronghold are doing. Lucy’s teetering at the edge of a nervous breakdown, and Elizabeth—Elizabeth couldn’t care less that a world exists out beyond the Stronghold’s walls. If I die, it’s going to be from trying to live!”
He glanced pointedly at the roan. “We could refuse to lend you a mount. After all, if Cochise gets you, he gets our horse, also.”
“You can take the cost out of my salary. And if you refuse to lend me a horse, I’ll simply walk!” She wheeled the horse around and broke into a gallop, hoping the horse’s hooves sprayed the abominable young man with more dust.
Once inside the Stronghold’s walls, she let loose the rein of her anger. Her entire day was ruined! She reached the stable and slung her quirt into the hay. She was in the midst of jerking her saddle from the horse when she saw that Law had passed through the gates. Having no wish to talk further with him, she quickly tended the horse and stalked back to the house. She had to pass the adobe beehive oven on the way, and the old Indian cook spoke to her in Spanish. “You have been riding, señorita?” “Not you too. Loco!”
Beneath the thatch of chalk-white hair, the brown pebbled eyes smiled before moving beyond her to the stable. “Lorenzo does not like your riding?”
She slapped her quirt against her gloved hand. “Lorenzo does not like anything—most of all work!”
Loco placed one doughy disc of bread on the wooden shovel and pushed it inside the oven’s mouth. “Ah, but, señorita, he likes my bread.”
She had the suspicion the old Indian was teasing her, calming her. “And he liked my pies as a child.”
“He could only have been a demon!” she snapped.
Loco’s eyes met hers. “Verdad. A boy like all boys—stealing the fruit pies I made from the window where I sat them to cool. Taking daring chances that would give the Doña Dominica heart failure.”
“She loved him very much?”
“He was everything to her, especially after his father died. Then Don Francisco came and offered Dona Dominica a man’s love that the boy’s love could not offer. And Don Francisco had his own son—and wife. You can und
erstand Lorenzo felt an outsider in his own home. He ran off. Many times I went to find him living at the rancheria in one of the peon’s huts. Then Don Francisco sent him off to school. When Lorenzo came back a man grown, his mother was dead.”
The bony shoulders beneath the white cotton camisa hunched. ‘‘But I am old and ramble too much, no?”
“No, I enjoyed talking with you, Loco.” She cast a glance behind her. Law was walking toward the house in that lazy stride peculiar to him. Was there no respite? Quickly she bade the Indian cook goodbye and stalked away.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Lucy? Are you feeling all right?”
A mumbled reply came from the closed bedroom, and Catherine hesitated outside Lucy’s door, unsure whether to knock again. Sherrod had been in Tucson for two days now, and Lucy had made only cursory appearances at mealtimes, returning to her room immediately afterward. She seemed only vaguely aware of the others at the table.
With Sherrod gone and Law back in the hills prospecting, so Don Francisco said with a bitter curve to his mouth, the dinner table that night seemed especially quiet. When Lucy failed to appear, Catherine at once volunteered to check on her. Lucy’s chatter was infinitely preferable to looking at Elizabeth’s inflexible expression across the table. If Don Francisco had not been at dinner to relieve the stilted conversation, Catherine would have taken dinner in her room.
She knocked once more on Lucy’s door. When there was no answer this time, she cautiously pressed the latch. It was the first view she had had of the room Sherrod and Lucy shared. Much the size of her own, the room was dominated by an old but elegant maple four-poster bed draped with tasseled blue velvet. It was there Sherrod and Lucy made love. Catherine had only a fair idea of what the act of copulation entailed, but to merely imagine a man like Sherrod holding her caused her mouth to go as dry as cotton.
Deep Purple Page 4
