Deep Purple

by Parris Afton Bonds

  When the grieving family arrived at the Stronghold, Jessie went immediately to the cool privacy of her room. She wanted only to be alone, but Elizabeth summoned her to Don Francisco’s old office that had become Sherrod's. Brig was pacing the floor, his hands behind his back. Elizabeth sat behind the desk. "Come in," she told Jessie, who hesitated in the doorway.

  Abigail, her eyes red, sat in the hard-backed chair, and Ira stood behind it. Jessie noticed he would not meet her eyes. Brig turned toward her, and she saw the anger burning in the dark- blue gaze. She frowned, not understanding the reason for his agitation.

  "I was just telling Brigham," Elizabeth said curtly, "that the Roget family will be coming to stay with us for some months. Mr. Roget and I will be closing the deal that Sherrod initiated before his death. They will, of course, be paying us a large sum for the mineral rights—for the excavation rights to whatever mines are discovered on Cristo Rey.”

  She addressed her grandson and Ira now. "I don't need to tell you that the initial down payment alone will compensate for the money Cristo Rey has lost in its cattle investments. The drought, cattle rustling, and overgrazing will wipe us out without the Roget money.”

  Abigail gasped, and Brig mumbled, half to himself, "Father mentioned the problem, but I had no idea.”

  In the silence that followed. Ira said. "You have to bend with the wind, Mrs. Godwin. You're doing only what has to be done. After all, if I understand it, it's only a five-year lease.”

  Brig jammed his hands in his pockets and turned to pace the floor. Abigail fidgeted with her handkerchief. Jessie was beginning to wonder why she had been included in this family council when Elizabeth said, "I have decided that Dona Dominica’s room”—and Jessie noted how Elizabeth’s voice seemed to hiss like water on a hot stove when she pronounced the name—“will be given to the Rogets.”

  Brig rounded on his grandmother. “And where will you put Jessie? All the other bedrooms are much smaller.”

  Elizabeth's back stiffened, and she rose from behind the desk. "It’s as good a time as any to bring the subject out into the open. Jessie Howard will have to find a place down in the rancheria.”

  Howard? Jessie stood stunned, listening to Brig and Elizabeth argue as if she were not present.

  “What?” he thundered.

  “Even then,” Elizabeth continued calmly, coolly, “it is only because of my goodwill that Jessie is fortunate enough to have a roof over her head. If it weren't for my promise to your father, Brigham, I would see that she never set foot on Cristo Rey again.”

  Brig went to stand before the old woman. A muscle jerked in his temple. “Good God, Grandmother, have you taken leave of your senses? Father would never hear of it!” His fist slammed against the desk. “And I won’t either!”

  Elizabeth looked at Jessie for the first time since the argument began. “No,” she said, “I haven’t taken leave of my senses.” A faint smile twitched the withered lips. “I am at last tying up the loose ends. Your father is dead, Brig. And he appointed me as administrator of Cristo Rey until you reach twenty-five years of age. And even then I will still hold half the interest in Cristo Rey. So my decision, my authority, is irrevocable. I want the bastard child out of the Stronghold today—immediately!”

  CHAPTER 28

  Jessie leaned low over the pony. Its tail streamed behind, blown by the wind, as was Jessie's own mane. She laughed, exulting at the exquisite feeling of flying over the earth, of pacing the man-made machine—the train that bellowed and snorted as it raced along the narrow-gauge railroad track beside her. But she knew she would win; she would reach Cristo Rey’s southern boundary, Camp Huachuca, first because she could take the short cuts the New Mexico & Arizona train could not.

  The watering hole, banked by a copse of acacia and iron wood, came into sight, and Jessie pulled up short, almost setting her calico on its haunches. She watched the train, its black smoke rising to faint white puffs in the sky, diminish in size as it edged its way around a bluff and chugged toward Nogales. Then she wheeled about and began the long trip back to the Stronghold’s rancheria.

  She rode the pony bareback, like an Indian, with her skirts hitched up above her knees, exposing the long, smooth line of calf and the bare feet sandaled in huaraches. She could no more imagine riding sidesaddle, as had her mother, than she could imagine living anywhere but Cristo Rey. She loved its vibrant colors and drastic change of landscape, as she loved the people— the Papagos and Mexicans she worked and lived with—as she loved Brig Godwin.

  She wondered sometimes that it did not show—the wild, sweet stirrings when he came near her, when their hands touched as she served him food when he ate with the other cowboys. He spent more time at the rancheria than he did at the Stronghold. She liked to believe it was to be near her, though she knew the problem of getting the cattle ranching back on its feet demanded much of his time outside the Stronghold.

  And she knew that she was only fooling herself, hoping that he could ever love her, for he had become engaged to Fanny two months before, in June. Fanny and her mother were gone now, escaping the summer heat by shopping in New York for the trousseau for the coming fall wedding. And Hugo had opened an office in Tucson, from which he directed his various mining ventures that included the gold and silver ore taken out of Cristo Rey’s rich earth. Elizabeth had achieved everything she had planned.

  Thinking about the woman, Jessie dug her heels into the calico flanks more roughly than she intended. She had always known the old woman detested her. But now, only as she neared her seventeenth birthday, did she realize the reason for Elizabeth’s enmity all those years. Elizabeth feared to lose Lorenzo Davalos's half of Cristo Rey to his daughter.

  The woman was possessed by Cristo Rey, made mad by her love of it. Jessie knew she would never have made any claim to the land. As long as she could have lived there, could live within sight of Brig, it would have been enough. But for Elizabeth to declare her illegitimate in order to retain control of Cristo Rey— that put Jessie beyond Brig. For how could he have ever come to love or marry a bastard?

  A bastard. She had not even known what it meant when first she heard the name on Elizabeth's tongue. Now she carried the name as a penitente did his flagellum. Once more a mat was her bed and her hands were reddened and roughened with work.

  She knew Elizabeth was lying yet knew no way of proving it. She knew of no one who had witnessed the ceremony between her mother and father.

  And Brig, what did he think? How did he feel? If whirlwinds twisted deep inside, no hint of emotion played across his face that had these days the cold stillness of sculptured stone. There was no swashbuckler bluster in Brig. He thoroughly and efficiently carried out all the tasks of actually running Cristo Rey.

  She could not help but ask herself if he carried out so thoroughly his courtship of Fanny those months she lived in the Stronghold. Had he kissed Fanny on the long rides the two had taken? Jessie could remember counting the hours until she saw the two ride back through the Stronghold’s gates. And always the ravishing Fanny looked . . . slightly ravished.

  Damn her red hair and big bosom!

  Jessie kneed the calico into a gallop. The pony crested a catback hill that overlooked the Stronghold and its rancheria, slid down the pebbled sides to the Cienega’s sandbar crossing, and streaked for the outbuildings.

  Her eyes searched among the cowboys gathered about the corral, but she did not see the one man she was looking for. Neither was he in the mess hall later that afternoon when she and old Marta served the hands their lunch. When Elizabeth had banished Jessie from the Stronghold, Brig had asked the old Mexican woman to take Jessie in. Marta had given her work to earn her keep and in return served as a substitute grandmother.

  Halfheartedly Jessie joked with the cowhands as she spooned the red beans over the fry bread. She passed by Red who threw a beefy arm about her waist. “Jessie, tell Slim you’re my sweetheart.”

  She struck Red’s arm with the wooden spoon. “The o
nly sweetheart who’d have you. Red Mahoney, is that sow sleeping in the mud out back.”

  The men clustered about the long table punched each other in the ribs and winked. A few openly laughed at her sally. Although Jessie Davalos was an eye-catching wild beauty, not one of them dared approach her on any but the friendliest terms. The boss had made that clear the day the scrawny kid had moved out of the Stronghold. Whatever stigma of bastardy rumor had it Jessie carried. Brig let it be known that as far as he was concerned she was his cousin and therefore lived and worked at the rancheria under his protection.

  But sweet Jesus, some of them thought as they watched her move out of Red's encircling arm, a man could withstand only so much temptation. And Jessie Davalos was a young woman grown now, sweet and ripe for the taking.

  From the mess hall's screen door Brig watched the scene in progress—the men admiring Jessie’s golden beauty and Red’s arm about her waist. The door slammed shut behind him as he stepped inside, and whatever jest Red might have made to Jessie died on his lips. Talk turned to other subjects, and the men nodded respectfully as Brig made his way to Slim.

  Jessie's heart galloped as she watched Brig pull out a thin yellowed sheet of rice paper and roll himself a cigarette while he talked to his foreman. Slim was a man twice his age and twice as leathery-looking. Long hours spent in the sun had only lightly tanned Brig’s skin below the Stetson, but the rough range work had molded the tall, slim body into sinewy strength.

  He said only a few words and was removing his spurred boot from the bench to leave when Jessie gathered her courage and took the initiative. "Want some lunch, Brig?”

  When the intense blue eyes fell on her, she did not see the usual gentleness in his gaze. Suddenly she felt a stranger to this man with whom she had grown up, who to her was more than a step-cousin. His lids drooped, curtaining his expression. "No, Jessie, I lunched at the Stronghold. I’ll just have a cup of coffee.”

  She had to refrain from smiling, for Brig had never drunk coffee at the Stronghold out of deference to his father’s Mormon leanings. He himself had once confessed to her as they sat before the door of Marta's jacale watching fireflies that he had his doubts about the revelations his namesake had experienced. Since she had not been raised in a church, she had never given the subject of religion any special thought other than a passing curiosity for the retablos hanging on her grandmother’s bedroom walls.

  When Jessie returned with the cup of coffee, she found Brig’s eyes studying her. Her steps slowed, and she could not help the pleasure she took in the way his gaze ran from her sloping neckline above the peasant blouse down to the short length of calf and bare ankle that peeped beneath the full skirt. A surge of heat leaped out like tongues of fire through her stomach.

  It was not the first time this had happened. She could be alone in the jacale she shared with old Marta, and the thought of Brig crushing her against him in a passionate embrace could cause the same aching feeling. But this was the first time he had looked at her like that—a look that made her knees go weak as water, so that when she passed the cup her hand trembled and the coffee sloshed over her wrist.

  With a gasp she dropped the cup. It shattered on the table, splashing scalding liquid on Brig. He shot to his feet. His plaid flannel shirt was soaked. At once she began to rip open the shirt. Buttons flew everywhere. “Brig, Brig,” she murmured over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” he reassured her, but already large red welts roped across the chest that was forested with dark curling hair.

  Once the cowhands realized no real damage had been done, they returned to their eating and raucous conversations, sounding for all the world like magpies. Beneath the noise she persuaded Brig to at least let her give him a clean shirt as she led him out of the mess hall.

  “I have several laundered shirts left over from the washing,” she told him over her shoulder, pushing open the plank door to her quarters. In one comer of the darkened room was a large woven basket, and she knelt beside it as she dug through the mound of clothing. “Here," she said, rising and crossing to Brig. "This should fit just about right.” She held up the shirt to his shoulders, measuring their width. In the semi-darkness she did not see the probing gaze he directed at her.

  She began removing his own now-tattered shirt, saying, “As long as you've gotten your shirt off, Brig, you might as well let me apply some salve to those welts.” Nervously, she crossed to the crude cupboard and returned with a tin of balsam of myrrh.

  Brig stood watching her. His muscle-corded arms hung limply at his sides, but as she approached him she noted the way his thumbs rubbed against clenched fingers. She stopped within inches of him, feeling the tension that erected a glass wall between them. Brig’s face froze into marble as she scooped the unguent from the container and touched his chest. The muscles beneath his feverish skin reacted visibly to her touch, twitching and flickering like a muleskinner’s whip.

  She glanced up into the rigid face. He was looking beyond her at nothing in particular. Hesitantly she massaged a small area where the burn was the worst, then moved on to the next red patch, always acutely aware of the pale smooth texture of his skin beneath her fingertips. Almost absently her fingers entwined with the short, wiry curls that tufted the skin about the small, hard nipples, then followed the dark thatch that swept down the center of the ribcage and taut stomach to enwreathe the navel.

  Her hand halted its progress. The seconds ticked off like staccato beats of an Indian cottonwood drum. At last Brig grasped her wrist in a painful grip. She raised her eyes to meet the eyes that burned in their sockets like cholera’s raging fever. “Jessie,” he grated.

  She gasped at what she saw in his eyes, and the breath seared her throat. “Brig . . .”

  His lips cut her short. Like a newborn blindly seeking nourishment too long denied, he covered her lips, her lids, her temples with soft, nipping kisses. Her head lolled backward. Her body trembled when his lips followed the graceful line of her throat down to the rising globes of flesh exposed above her blouse. She gave herself up to his ravishment, not even feeling the hands that bit into her arms with the agony of having something too long withheld.

  “Jessie,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “You’re just a child. Too young. My cousin.”

  “A step-cousin,” she cried out as he moved to set her from him. Her hand grabbed at his and brought it up against her breast, forcing him to feel the furious thudding of her heart. “Feel me. Brig! I’m not a child any more! I’m a woman—with a woman’s needs!”

  “Good God,” he groaned, closing his eyes. “Jessie, I’m getting married next fall. This can’t happen."

  She wouldn’t let him pull away. “I think I've loved you since I was a child, Brig. I’m not going to give you up. You can’t make me stop loving you!"

  His lids snapped open. “I have to marry Fanny, don't you understand! There’s Cristo Rey to—”

  “Damn Cristo Rey!” she rasped and stood on tiptoe to claim the full mouth, her hands cupping his head to pull it down to hers.

  Sunlight flashed through the shadowed room. "Chiquita,” Marta’s voice began, “there are the dishes to do, and—” the old Mexican woman’s words dropped off like falling stones as the couple broke apart.

  Brig’s fingers dug into Jessie’s arm, as if he wished to transfer his agony to her. Then he spun away and stalked from the room.

  Marta stepped aside as the tall young man strode past her. She looked at Jessie who stood like a statue. “Dios ayudate,” she said, sadly shaking her head, “for you need all the help God can give you, chiquita."

  She crossed to Jessie. Her horny, gnarled hand lifted the young girl’s chin. “Even if Señor Brigham loved you, do you think La Señora Elizabeth will let him marry you? Not only are you a bastarda—and I say this because I love you like my own, and you must understand the truth—but Cristo Rey needs the Roget money. No, Señor Brigham could never marry you, chiquita.”


  CHAPTER 29

  From over the clothesline that stretched between the two big cottonwoods Jessie’s gaze followed Brig’s slim, sinewy figure as he strode from the Stronghold’s open gates down to the smithy. The stocky man, bare-chested and aproned, listened respectfully to whatever it was Brig told him.

  It had been two weeks since that afternoon Brig kissed her. She questioned how any human could want another one so much that it could cause physical pain; yet, watching his lithe, graceful movements—a gesture of his hand, the tilt of his dark head, his authoritative stance—she felt the knotting of her stomach, twisting and coiling inside her like some serpent out of Eden.

  Brig, Brig, Brig. I love you. I want you.

  As if the unspoken words had reached his ears, Brig’s head turned slowly. His gaze moved past the bunkhouses, the jacales where brown children played, the blindfolded burro whose circular plodding ground the corn into meal, and finally to the cluster of wash kettles and caldrons. He glanced only briefly at Marta hunched over the scrub board. His eyes narrowed as he found the young girl’s figure silhouetted against the white muslin sheets. He felt the flame rise in his groin.

  A child. How old was Jessie now? Old enough to have the monthly flow. His fingers dug into his palms. God, but guts were being kicked inside out! The want of her warred with his notions of right and wrong. He could think of half a dozen reasons why he shouldn’t touch her. She was his step-cousin. She was still a child. He was engaged to another woman.